Dust Horizon

The ring hit the floorboards with a thin,

metallic chime, then rolled into the dark.

I had to go down on my belly, chin

pressed to the wood, following the spark.

It’s a different climate six inches down.

The air is thick with skin and cotton rot.

A single wool sock, a muddy shade of brown,

sits curled like a foot in a forgotten spot.

It’s stiff as a cast, holding onto a shape

that hasn't lived inside it for a year.

There is no easy way to plan an escape

from the sediment that accumulates here.

I found the gold tucked in a corner seam,

covered in a fuzz that looks like woolly smoke.

My flashlight beam is a cruel, narrow dream

shining on the things I never spoke.