Our lives are six kinds of dust.
There is too much that must

be done before a thousand 
something elses can and

will be done and we'll be 
done when we are dead.  We

won't be done until we're
old and then?  The sheer

weight of it all will fall
from us like lights from small

cities of the mind gone
the way of the false dawn,

drawn from the bones of our
nights, from the final hour

of this short day’s lost seam,
this longest of night’s dream.