Ecdysis

He finally abides, hands grey,
among cork and silk and carpet,
always smelling vinegar, or
cat's piss, or Vicks vapour,
or kettle crust or fog.
His hands have felt every
facet of this coop, this
kennel, every mahogany root,
sagging armchair, dust pan,
greasy mirror; each silent,
poised trapping of monogamy.
He is tired, too many bones
to prop, scars to balm and
sigh, too little open sky, dishes
to dry, glasses to clutch and drop.
Days uncoil slowly as the milk
and eggs spoil. He stoops and
creases into a chair, his skin
is tight and slack, thick and thin;
he wishes he could be a snake,
shake it loose and start again.
At night he never strays far
from his lamp, his floor, his
opened door. He lies awake
and watches gold-dust pass
the beam from dresser-top
to wooden boards, and breathes
his way towards the dawn.
And if he dreams, he dreams
of colors falling, rain and snow,
of children, laughter, beauty, no
late departed photograph,
no love, no curtains drawn
around his house, he has time
for them on purgatorial afternoons.
No, if he dreams, he dreams
of a wind, a breath, a tune twisting
on summer air, a thirst, a life;
of a dumb renunciation or
a tulip wilting in his hand.