I wiped the dresser and the cloth came away dark

I wiped the dresser and the cloth came away dark,

almost black. Weeks of dust, maybe more.

I sneezed before I could mark

the moment, before the pour

of light caught the particles

floating like they'd been waiting

for permission to show themselves.

Gray streak on white cloth. The rating

of time is dust—the world

settling on your dresser,

on your small room, unfurled

across the surface. Pressure

builds. You don't notice

until one morning you see

it there. The particles,

still falling. You're supposed to be

cleaning, but you just stand

holding the cloth, watching

what settles, what won't expand

into anything but this—dust watching

you, proof of how long you've let go.