DUST By David Wagoner Through stubble the color of dust, the dust devil spins down the sloping furrows, the only cloud at this day’s end gone furious under the sky and on earth in a coil toward me, snarled tight at the churning base, one streamer flung up and around and lost and left with a hunch and hump sideslipping to tanglefoot past me full of itself and tall as a house with nothing and no one home long enough to matter in its hurry to be done with it, to outrace what it lifts, swivels, and tosses to earth to settle for less and less, now for even less.