William Doreski

Self-Shedding, Ending with a Preposition

Human dust, our own shed cells,
powders us daily forever,
distinguished grime of the world.

How did we become so fragile,
so prone to quiet dissolution?
Does the dust ever become us

again, resuming basic functions?
Or is it debris, spoor, clue
to our most clueless moments?

At dusk the town lights struggle
to illuminate the darkest folds.
Traffic sputters home to house

and child, furniture sulking
after another day of dust.
Someone tries to read a book

as thick as a thigh. Someone pours
a drink the color of starlight.
We crumple into each other

with expressions milked almost dry.
The dust never settles. Lamplight
catches particles breezing

through heated indoor dimensions,
feeling for a surface to smut.
We shed ourselves completely

several times per lifetime. Snow
and rain aren’t so persistent.
Should we be more respectful

of ourselves, and gather our dust
in plastic bags, add water,
and try to clone our modest egos?

Let’s not bother. The lamplight
isn’t entirely honest;
and the town, winking and blinking,

will sneeze and snuffle human dust
until we’ve shed our skins and bared
everything the night sky lusts for.

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William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard College, Boston University and Keene State College. His most recent books are Water Music and Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston.