Where I'm writing this, particles

of dust pick up light

in the air. You almost can't see

them, but they're there. I describe

the dream to a friend. She tells me

you can only worry so much.

But I can worry so much.

Should I be grateful? Like any particle,

I change when I'm observed. Light

puddles in a forest clearing. No one sees

it. What good does it do to describe

the indescribable. I divide

myself from myself, but that's still me.

I divide myself from the species, refuse touch.

Disappearance is methodical.

Once glittering cities seen by satellite

are snuffed. Their edges darken into sea.

Why did it take me so long to see

how we destroy what we describe?

Dead as a dodo, the cousin of the manatee

was twice the size of a family car. Every particle

is mostly empty space, but light

is both a particle and a wave. Light

slips through the smallest crack, and I see

nothing clearly. Still. My friend describes

how her dead refract in dreams. Come back to me.

We have to make up for so much

before we return, particle to particle.