Property Lines

The sun hit the corner of the guest room

at a sharp, cruel angle.

I saw the mess I’d let grow in the dark,

a thick, fuzzy hammock of dust and legs.

It isn't a lace thing. It’s a heavy weight,

clotted with the husks of three dead gnats

and a moth that gave up in November.

I dropped the rag and just looked at it,

this border I let something else build.