The Noise of Dust

The noise of dust wakes us at night.

Trembling clouds make an imperfect circle above the earth,

temples and memories and palliatives quiver in broken sunbeams,

as the anatomy of emptiness easily assumes new forms.

Blinding clarity with systems of intoxicating colour,

nostalgia seductively corrupting hope,

and from a barren womb thin promises.

I move through the images like armies,

as I mourn the impermanence of thought

and the omnipotence of myth. ◊