by Sharon Ashton

The stain is still there
where you and the dogs come in, 
and on the upstairs landing
wretched begonias shed
red petal red petal red. 
How like canon-shot the doorknobs are, 
round and sure shrinkers of space
between here and there.
Space has no meaning now.
I am wherever. 
Motes briefly shaped
by the memories of others. 
Dust on a window sill, 
drifting sometimes
through eyes and mouths
of  hollow Greek helmets
we brought back from Rhodes.