The Shelf

I was cleaning—

which I don't do—

and found the dust on the shelf

had built up into something

I hadn't noticed.

The dust was thick.

When I wiped it, my finger

left a clean line,

and underneath

was dust,

was layers,

was time compressed

into something that wasn't quite

dirt anymore.

I live here.

I walk past this shelf.

And somehow the dust

accumulated

without me seeing,

without me noticing.

That clean line my finger made

showed it all:

how invisible the world can be,

how much can happen

when you're not looking,

how you can live somewhere

and miss the slow,

ordinary

falling of things.

The dust didn't settle today.

It settled every day.

I just wasn't there.