They Will Sew the Blue Sail

RECLAMATION PROJECT(dust) | Rusty Morrison

Non-terrestrial window of illuminated dust, otherwise suspected of being prayer,

a motion mistaken technologically as retrievable


misshapen, its foreign language arrives open syllable, an arresting rotunda in full

sunlight, herd of glimpses in the glass magnitude that meaning


now it is later by hours—forrestrial hours of who, what, where—each clandestine

discovery dirtying the opening which will not be fitted to any


particles of toxins floating their feather-ish allowance of shifting hues that blur

from one to the next afternoon indistinguishable between then and a


in his cowboy hat says it’s vomit, though most people step into

anyway, as opposed to ‘into it anyway’, and go on with


hiding sometimes an entire night from its inquisitions, awakened in the citrus morning

to motes of floating trash, stray gutter jive, and its reciprocal


etymologically a desecration of the holy place with urine, feces—but online as
awareness endlessly renewable and too late for any crisis it could


with fine particles from the deep well of incidental, yet still lovingly chiseled details

spilling outward from a space where customers are


to everyone being wrong, to anyone ever actually being served, at the bank or ticket
counter or church where long-consonant divinities crooning dawn will mix with a


of grinding metal, otherwise recognizable as the yes, that is my name, corroded faith,
the surface life of one woman so embrittled, her alloy finally


spewing venal sins, hoards of saints, Midwest Monsanto corn crawling out from its
shriveled shape, sharp-taloned vulture-beaked future


caged together as if they could be taught to warble in unison, yes, that is my

fingernail down the chalkboard, gramophone needle