Static Collection

The hum finally stopped when I pulled the string.

I couldn't sleep through the clicking anymore.

I lay there watching the four blades swing

to a slow, heavy halt above the floor.

On the leading edge, where the wood meets the air,

a thick, greasy scallop of soot has grown.

It looks like velvet, or matted-down hair,

a physical record of time on its own.

It’s the gray stuff of living, caught in a blur,

the skin we shed while we’re trying to dream.

I wanted the room to be cleaner than it were,

but the dirt is a permanent part of the scheme.

I should get a ladder and wipe it all back,

but I’m paralyzed here by the weight of the ceiling.

Just staring at the rim of the heavy, dark black,

and the slow, quiet way that the year is peeling.