Spaces and Dust

A sheen of dust,
thin envelope of air,
and a fear of death
that stops us living,
are things we all share.

I inhabit space
behind a cellar door -
geographically nowhere much.

The door is a curtain of sun-
construction a selection of fragments,
sprung green fern, fragrant degradation.

My mighty arms are combed
with stents and probes,
underlashed by equatorial pipes.

We are between spaces -
height - depth -
left - right -
hemispheres of chance
drenched with light, borders tied
with chants and prayers.

Wonder-bound, our wounds
are mined with wire and sound -
blooms of colour
amid fear and deafness.

Deities of indecision,
how the dust settles
in the loss of momentum,
like flies on a carcass.