If there is touch or heart
instead of dust-balls beneath
the bed or leaves pressed under
foot & boot or splinters wedged
like glass into the flesh, there
will be love and loss and spirit.
Of love, sometimes the dread,
a place of restlessness, of nerve
the quiet dust-balls collecting
hair, lint, fibers beneath the bed.
Of loss, always despair, helpless
despair, the sound of leaves cracking
under weight. And spirit, tiny
sharpened wood, its trillion jagged
pieces, burrows in, disappears
into the body of a world.