whilst hoovering up dust under the bed he found an old policeman’s truncheon

fingerprints long since forgotten under spent human skin cells and hair drift

with forensic capabilities he recognised the woollen fibres from the red blanket

no doubt about it there were also fragments of novels and discarded dreams

the sagging mattress had not been lifted and turned for how many years now?

not since his wife died.

there in a box her jewellery had been placed along with letters and pollen

he wasn’t sure why he had kept all this stuff when he hadn’t loved her enough

domestic dust may contain minuscule quantities of burnt meteorite particles

we are all made of stardust or some such bollocks the labels should have read

dust – dust in homes, offices, roads, atmosphere – dust in our deadened souls

since his wife died.

a paper thin cut to his finger drew beads of blood from beneath his nail

add that to your evidence oh god the creator of heaven, hell and earth

outside the harvest moon was a dinner plate rolling along the horizon hill

moon dust and madness with a one way ticket from this doomed planet

he left the truncheon undisturbed beneath its grey woolly blanket fluff

his wife died.

her vision of death was one of deep undisturbed but semi-conscious sleep

unbelievers both and agreed there would be less disappointment that way

what else can you say about dust? There are dust storms and volcanic dust

cremation dust scattered on a favourite and meaningful patch of pretty land

a cliff view overlooking a lighthouse and the oil refinery tanker sea queues

wife died.

it was all a blank now – pictures turned inwards to face the flock wallpaper

books reversed so he would never be able to read the titles on the spines

home videos wiped clean and hard drives smashed with a sledge hammer

letters returned to sender marked no longer at this address and underlined

fingerprints and fibres – cast off memories – tinned peaches in the pantry





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