Bleeders

Blankets of dust
Collect from sitting in stale corners 
Untouched
To be swept up
Like a dirty thing 
Maybe a compass
Or a clock beating 
Every minute 
Of every hour
Of every letter
Of every dirty word
And tortured 
tousled
Thrown in with the peasant trash
Wilted and scratched down to
Bleeding scabs of unsatiety
But the air dreams again and she is
disentregated into circles  
Only that shiny dust
Is left to the shadows
Perpendicular glitter - 
dim fragments of those pale girls.