The Blessing of Dust

Amid evening scents of old roses and fresh cut grass
she lays her mask on the bedside table
and rests her bones on alabaster satin.

In dreams the ocean washes her in teal
and gulls wheel above her. The bed becomes
a cushion of broken shells in which she is locked
as the key flies off through oily waters.

Nothing about hearts, nothing about flowers,
her face laid bare, she must slumber on
till dust or moss might bestow a sheen -
benediction of concealment.