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Terese Svoboda

BPR 43 | 2016

is mixed gravity with grease. But just lying there,
dust a teenager with the “I’m growing” excuse?
No—it’s happiness dispersed, the gas of dailiness for all.

Dust, where are thou/not.
With courage to gavotte in mote-larval state
across the air all afternoon,

each package of microbes teeming
with exclamation in Look-at-me-light,
a twitter of hard news, it settles.

I’d-rather-be-sailing stickers dustified,
the rag itself buffed into this particular beyond,
the Sahara of let me alone.

But why the French grey, color of chic
and the formal, so conformist? A rainbow detoxed?
Camouflage—so dust can watch us.