Dust You were right, from the beginning, with no coaching, no language, really with no parents, who were elsewhere on dream missions, who were mumbling to themselves over boiling pots of shrunken heads, over ill-shapen spears and in twilight. You were right as you stumbled out the door, breaking through the safety gate, with the dog barking, and fell in the muddy yard. You were right that the ground was alive, the mud was alive, and the pebbles were rattling slow dim thoughts like favourite uncles, and the air was innumerably alive and everything was speaking in tongues. And you were right that the doctors and doctrines were dust, and the stars and worlds and words and signs and numbers were dust. And you were right that the dust is alive, and the pebbles are alive, and the mud is alive, and the ground is alive. You were right. So live with it.