In the next room, a woman sweeps the floor.
She can’t to bed, she go says, until the rugs
are shaken and all the sand is out. Her broom
rattles into corners and under the bed,
then sighs for the sand as she pushes it
over the worn boards, sweep and sweep-
and the wind blows it back in at the door.
The wind. When did it rise, its fists full of sand?
She keeps the rhythm, but furious now she knocks
over chairs and batters the door frame, muttering
sand and sand. Where the sill spills into dark,
she waves the broom and rages against the wind,
her broken boots untied, her white hair flying.
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