Human Dust

Imagine if we all stopped; If we all got down on our knees, our fresh, old, scabbed, tiny, white, grass-impressed knees. And we leaned forward on our hands, our worn, banded, un-banded, hennaed, soft, swollen hands. And we pressed our noses to the ground, our pierced, runny, broken, hooked, well-defined noses. Imagine if we breathed in. All seven-billion chests to the ground, expanding our new lungs, patched lungs, smoked-out lungs. We smell human dust. Traces of footsteps, sawdust of colonial Frigates, spices from Asia, particles of hair and skin: a sacrifice of the virgin, shavings of Roman busts, washed out patterns from the blizzard of 1888, pieces of a cracked Sarissa from the 3rd century BC, torn papers, ligaments, and hearts. Imagine, we become human dust.