Cartography of Dust

In the attic of the year, wind sifts a census of dust, constellations pinned to rafters, each mote a quiet archive. I lift a pane of light, and it trembles like thin glass, showing rooms that no longer hold their voices.

Outside, the street is a long violin of rain, bowed by passing buses, the gutters singing low. A paper boat unbuttons itself and drifts, carrying a small map of the sky in its wet belly.

Night kneels on the porch, patient as a cat. The porch light hums, a tired beehive, and my name is a coat I hang on the back of a chair, still warm with the shape of a person leaving.

I walk the rooms, measuring them with breath, listening for the earth to turn its page. Somewhere a hinge rehearses its bright hinge-song, and the house learns to be a compass again.