Brad Bostian
Grains
unnumbered sift their way every night
To the floor. I never knew there were
ants
Enough or bits of my house enough to fall
And from the sand of my
hard-earned sleep
Make the dust of time to greet me
In the bathroom
when I wake up.
What could they
possibly accomplish?
Is the dream that is my house too tall?
At this
rate a thousand years could pass
Without a noticeable hollowness
To
the walls and windows of the house,
Yet their work continues like politics,
Or like my own unheralded writing.
