weight; dust

in my house are gladiolas,
angry fuchsia spikes dusting damp leather
with specks of orange pollen.
with windows open, the rain has settled in
armchairs and on couches, grey rivulets
swivel, lazy, down arms and backs,
and the air is crazy, a dim state of entropy.
there is so much dust in here,
my house is heavy with it, as i
am heavier, with what? stones of
contentment, yes? beans of what?
joy? sands? of love, yes.
or maybe it is cherry pop and vodka.
or maybe old baseball movies, or maybe
it is the weight of brick and basement,
of hardwood and chipped paint.
i am not the same, as you
are not the same. we are spreading out,
filling in, defining.
we wound and create and callous and scar,
but it is dust, so changeable, all this weight.
and it settles, eventually, to the floor.