Dust covers the window, but light slips through — 
it always does — through dust or cracks or under doors.

                         Every day at dusk, the sun, through branches,
hits a river’s bend & sends silver slivers to the walls. 

                          No one’s there to see this. No one.
But it dances there anyway, that light, 

              & when the wind weaves waves into the water 
it’s as if lit syllables quivered on the bricks. 

              Then the sun sinks, swallowed by the dark. In that dark  
more dust, more dust settles —  sighs over everything. 

              There is no silence there: something always stirs 
not far away. Small rags of noise. 

Rilke said most people will know only a small corner of their room. 
            I read this long ago & still don’t know 
                        how to understand that word only.
			
            I think of you, love —  search for you in each room
that breathes between me & dusk, me & dust. 
                         Love, torn corner from this life.