The inside of a deserted house:
from the window,
light illumines dust
settling to create a blanket
of forgetting over furniture.
Even if the air disturbs
the process, slowly
every particle finds its spot,
a place where it conveniently covers up
some distant memory - on a nearby table

a partial puzzle waits. One piece is still
a lost unsettled edge,indisposed.
The idea that it is the missing piece
completes its sadness.

In only one spot can the table top be seen.

Untouched, unfinished,
the puzzle succumbs
to slow forgetting
what is lost
while dust
fills
the
gaping
gap.

This is a poem I originally wrote on September 17th, 2003. I revised it after five years! It's been a long time since I last read this. I think I have forgotten enough of the emotions behind it so I am now able to publish a revision. Comments are appreciated, of course. Cheers!