The breeze I ignored
up in the attic is a dust devil
dancing down the stairs

a swirl of intent heading
havoc to the kitchen.
I tell you, nothing is safe

not the cannisters of coffee
and rice, not the painting
you gave me of blue lobelia,

or the dog’s bowl of water
flung in a fury. Not the cell phone
with its shattered screen.

You say you don’t know
where you live anymore
or why you are where you are.

No bay is out your window,
just the distance, the distance
and the desert where I am.