Tinier than a man can see

I had thought light and then dust

was my enemy, but then I saw the mold,

spores of it skipping from the window to the shelf

to the tops of the books below.

These freckles I bleached.

Till I dreamt of them, swirling.

Not for fear but love did I dream –

for he in whom the cancer had spread –

of microbursts and a metastatic sky.

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