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Poem	Stirs its ashes and embers, its burnt sticks An eye powdered over, half melted and solid again Ponders Ideas that collapse At the first touch of attention The light at the window, so square and so same So full-strong as ever, the window frame A scaffold in space, for eyes to lean on Supporting the body, shaped to its old work Making small movements in gray air Numbed from the blurred accident Of having lived, the fatal, real injury Under the amnesia Something tries to save itself-searches For defenses-but words evade Like flies with their own notions Old age slowly gets dressed Heavily dosed with death's night Sits on the bed's edge Pulls its pieces together Loosely tucks in its shirt
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