Stirs its ashes and embers, its burnt
An eye powdered over, half melted and solid
Ideas that
At the first touch of
The light at the window, so square and so
So full-strong as ever, the window frameA scaffold in space, for eyes to lean
Supporting the body, shaped to its old
Making small movements in gray
Numbed from the blurred
Of having lived, the fatal, real
Under the
Something tries to save
For defenses-but words
Like flies with their own
Old age slowly gets
Heavily dosed with death's
Sits on the bed's
Pulls its pieces
Loosely tucks in its shirt
