The Faces of Small Things

The faces of small things
whose lives I've troubled
return to haunt me –
a woodlouse the spilt coffee-mug
afflicted –
the moth I refused to wake for
with eyes of polished grit
and a feathery something
that it waved with useless abandon.

Things smaller still, seen
through imagination's dream microscope
pack in upon me. Their bodies
teem with detail –
they spring from a world
that's clearly involved
and brimming with complication –
a universe I  polish
into fragrant oblivion.

The face of a particle
stares boldly through me.
I shift in awkward engagement
and cannot meet its gaze.
What does it see?
Perhaps, it sees nothing more than vacancy –
and the dust that trembles
on my other side.

Umbrella Head​