The last spring. (poem)

The early light, already mellow, inches

up his steps; it bleeds through the blinds, and slides

down the sheer drop of sleep. He draws a breath,

it makes a sound, and he knows, in the belly

of old age, he knows he can rise, one more day.

Slow mincing steps to the bathroom, the stink

of old raging in the toilet; arthritic hands,

a sliver of soap; in the mirror a face

like a broken dish. He stumbles to the kitchen,

already the windows are burning, the night's

rain clings to bare branches. He cups a bowl

of milk and sips, bony arms braced on the table.

His cramped hand …