An eyelash, drifts through the stripes of dust and gold that
a window, fourteen feet high, once threw on my old bed.
The arches of my ancestral home, still bent low with mourning,
and the loss of ninety three or so years of service to a pearl bearded man.
The room now lies bare, and dusty,
that eyelash has settled in the clockwork of that old winding table clock, with a radium dial.
Someday perhaps, in a sunday antique market,
the eyelash, will be released again,
lumbering with it an outdated wish.
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