Dust to Dust | Poem | Michael Dickel

Dust to Dust


Michael Dickel

Sleep and dream fly
off together—dish and spoon
beneath the cowed moon—
and wonder if daisies die
when the wine turns to dust.

Surfaces fluster dust,
flutter across our screens—
revealing the hidden lust
of light-and-shadow scenes—
old celluloid ideas crumbling.

Eyelids crumble like old film, flicker—
resist pulsating wakefulness.
Waves stream behind a boat—quicker
currents spraying—nonetheless
entropy glosses the lake’s surface.

Flies surface on a glossy window—
crowded dun specks—each self-hurled
hard against the dull winter glow—
drummers selling speculation that our world
will crumble to dust, surface in sleep and dreams.

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