hanging from the
bedroom wall
she needs a holy cleaning
dust on her eyebrows
between the lips
where the hand strums
the sitar
life’s most delicate debris
trapped in the creases
of a fine wood carving
beyond the rag’s reach
or fluff of feathers
nestles like April snow
in mountain crevasses
untouched by sun
or the dirty secret
lodged in a wrinkle
that’s gets deeper
with age