Laying the Dust



Sweet empty smells: oranges, old
rooms and shelves of broken glass.
Amidst green and amber shards

my hands bleed.  Tonight
moon grins through torn scraps
of cloud.  Her melting light smears

the sky.  When have we eaten last,
broiled our meal with olive oil
and wine, or taken for drink

a golden glass of wind?  
When have we wrapped ourselves
in waves?  Tonight we see moon’s

teeth bared in shadows
on the brittle wafer of her silver
face, feel surging tides of our own

blood.  How quietly these ghosts
gather, with what tender gestures
find each others’ faces in the night.  

Beautiful and shy, they lean
into their own hearts, against
thin, transparent bones, shadow

hands, black pools of their own
huge eyes.  At last, in cold wind
and splash of stars

we have dragged our own fury
bound and beaten to the woods.
We have come home to lay the dust.