Watching You Nap Beneath a Faded Quilt

 Angela Armstrong         

The body is past tense. 

It's here, but

it's already happened:

softened bones of the hip,

veins, branches blue with cold.

So I wasn't surprised to learn

that dust is mostly skin cells,

particles of you and me

that float in winter sunlight. 

Over time, a worn boot falls

to its side and the clock

in the shape of a breast

makes no more sound at night. 

Dust covers everything

we've ever touched

as if to say, somehow,

it remembers us.