Dust

And after the dust settles

Like on the cover of an encyclopaedia,

It'll frame handprints

Like iron fillings drawn to a magnet.

And so, my hands will retrieve

The old book from its cubby hole.

And in my hands, knowledge of the years

would be decreased into pages

That ultimately have no control

Over the external effects of handprints:

reminders of how our fates are

our own doing,

While the silhouettes would reflect

The uncontrollable vicissitudes of

How

the dust

Settles.

After years of plotting and precise

positioning, the pages still shiver in the

Billowing wind, and the particles still

coalesce on every uncovered surface.

But perhaps it's curiosity, impatience, or

My invincibility complex, that propels my

Meddling hands to perpetually attempt

To dust-bend,

An effort that, needless to say, falls flat

Onto slightly lighter areas on covers:

now misshapen hands, crooked fingers,

And very unevenly shaded.