From the outer places,
the dust (of which I am
very afraid)
clings to the mesh screen
of a window.
(see that hand print
of heat
left on the glass?)
The light
outside
is very grey.

The light through an amber lampshade
is diffused on my hand,
and the dust on an amber lampshade
is of me and from me.
I am very afraid of myself.

The cloudy ice
is melting
and watering down
my scotch.

The water is evaporating from the toilet-bowl.

I can see myself twenty years from now,
on my knees bare-chested, sag melting off muscles
that pulsate rhythmically
as I scrub the toilet-bowl

before sitting on the couch
and letting the dust fall 
snow-like
on my shoulders.