Dust, in its Infinite Lightness,
can double the weight of a mattress in ten years.
You stand at the foot of the bed. The sheet, a blue canopy,
hovers and rests for a moment on dust or air, inertia,
the energy of its own rise before it falls.
Physics tells you a feather will fall at the same speed as a brick,
but the sheet wafts down unevenly, rests and settles,
wrinkled on the bed for you to straighten.
You can think of these things, physics and weight,
ten years of accumulated dust,
the cleaning and the straightening and the crawling into bed,
or remember how the breeze lifts the curtain
and the sun catches dust in a stream of light
while you stand, arms raised, attached to the sheet
that billows out before you on the air.