by Nynke Passi

For a twenty minute portion
of each day I tend
to my mortality,

removing the print of dust
from furniture & glass,
gently brushing

the small mass of a cobweb
away from the ceiling
as if it were

a clump of hair loose
on the scalp
of a cancer patient.

I recognize the grungy
dust balls that waltz
ahead of my hands

across the wooden floors
as tiny messengers
of the hereafter: One day

the flimsy remnant
of my ashen shape will rest
on the matter of this world,

briefly gathered in one place
before someone’s breath
will blow it away.

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