I Was Dust
Sticky walls are enough.
A thick breeze from a slow fan
is enough. Nighthawks choke
on their own cries and turn
on slim wingtips in blackness,
and they are enough. Cars wail
on their tires, processions of them,
and in their nonstop panic
through stoplights and the unlit
horizons, without a doubt
these are enough. It is rarely said
there is enough drowning in the ocean
or that atmosphere contains enough shearing,
or that beyond its angry clouds
more than enough stars prick.
One victory and one loss between
two people: that story is enough.
It will never go away.
One blow to a child is enough.
Children stutter in front of adults
as adults stutter into their own grief.
A flash is enough. Nothing can add
to it one spark our sound.
On a night like this I realized
I'd had it up to here. I loaded a sack
I needed and left the rest.
Outside the door the dead air
got worse, full of the on and on
of crickets. I woke each day
for a year out of heavy nights
with walls all around. I was like all
the desert powder one hand can hold.
Fortunately that's enough.
Fortunately, I was dust.