I treat the tip of my finger

to a guiltless run.

A fling

along a groove

crowning the wardrobe

we’ve emptied

in your bedroom.


The dust is stubborn;

as thick as aging hair.

It does not budge

but sticks and harbours cobwebs

that fix a tightrope

from my nail to the wall.


For days after I cough dust:

old bits of your skin, dried

with the lint that unthreaded your clothes.