Accumulation

The sun cuts a hard diagonal through the air

and suddenly the room is crowded with ghosts.

It’s a slow-motion blizzard of skin and hair

settling down on the beams and the posts.

I ran a finger through the soot on the shelf,

a velvet smear of everything we used to be.

It’s a quiet way of losing yourself

to the friction of just living, as far as I can see.

Behind the fridge, the coils are wearing a coat

of gray fur that hums with the heat.

We spend our lives trying to stay afloat

in a house that is slowly becoming complete.