Mopping in the dark


Soaking wet

Tresses of absorbent fibers


From one side to the other.

The dim gray strands

stand out

against dark wood laminate.

The motion of the mop is blurred,

a stop motion film.

Jerking here—then there

Every other frame a dark dream

A moment of still emptiness

That carries within itself

infinite possibility of


My time unfolds

With no respect for the infinite possibility

And I work backwards down the hall

The past shimmering and reflective.

Comprehensible now, but

The future

always behind my back

Dusty, sticky, and mysterious

Only revealed as I(God) wipe away its secrets

My cleansing of what is hidden.

Of possibility


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