March, Wind Gusts Up To 45
It’s time to clean, again.
I’m poor at cleaning, don’t understand
where all that dust comes from.
The cat hair–that makes sense.
And the husband-hair and mine. Outside,
the dry March wind is abrading
the tail of winter, polishing
its ancient departing butt, and good
riddance. The air, though, is gritty
with emery and dead cells, bodies
of thingies that once sort of swam.
There was a great sea, rich with tiny sea
monsters. The new garden center
container with diatomaceous earth
inside cautions against inhaling
the contents. Remember the way its sharp
multitudinous skeletons treat slugs
and think of soft alveoli. Don’t
forget your eye protection. All
the world out there is shedding dust,
promising to renovate
when the tenants are gone. Where, indoors,
does all that shed mortality come
from? Not the ceiling
or windows or walls.