Robert Verdon, #68, Dust

the blue of lobelia

burns in a green patch

squints against sunset

rusty on fence-wire

history’s red bicycle

passes like memory, its

wind a white fish-knife;

green pearls of grapes

and vine leaves crown it,

it goes on without us

but each life inherits

more heavenly nebulae

soon we all die

and believe that we must

yet nothing is nearly

as active as dust …