The Dust Collector *
gets down on his knees
in some corner of a cathedral, not to pray but see
if there’s a speck, a bloom, a trace,
or if the infernal place
is as emptied of history
as London’s National Gallery or the Uffizi.
Out of ‘all these actions that took place here’, his eye falls
on anything at all
for the scanning electron microscope: his Rose
Window on the genius
of what escapes us.
*Wolfgang Stoecker ‘My Empire of Dust’