The curtain's spine is first to wear dirt.
The sheer panel dims over time,
a failing bulb. The edges of the ceiling fan
grow furry with sediment, like petals
recalling pollen. Without movement,
life is present, but only through accumulation,
congregation. Stillness calls out to stillness
in the language of decomposition.
Dust and tarnish will stain anything stationary,
will drape dusky hands on unmoving material,
turn brightness into pallor. The curtain sighs,
content to go on gathering, gathering.