Old in the Wind

like a
cleaved moth
he limps away
along the
wooden
pane.

the birth of
elderly
flowers
smell like
powder in the
living room,

pushing up
their
wilted grass
against the piano legs
and singing
with voices like
ammonia,

harmonium,
harmonica,

the busted
window
peels with
sounds like this,

and layers of
skin are
under there
like dozens of
days of
rain in a row.