The world is giving up its tiny dead -

hair  carapaces   dust   come out of hiding

with the white flag of air,

drift slowly     surrender.

 

Lamentations to soften the scratch of feet.

 

In a bleak sun a broom signs the treaty

dust is on the march.

The arc begins,    mass grave swept

through forests of bristle

 

the sweeper content in the cheating of gravity.

 

Across the yard, she examines his progress

chiding him with a light curse.

 

The storehouse door is jammed open,

the dark interior a place of comfort.