My most popular poem on Instagram this week was “Milky Way”

Her feet
in the early morning light
are whiter than milk.
Bones visible. Wrinkles,
veins, a light dusting
of hair on shin. Fearful feet,
now. Thin, papery skin.
Staying in. Swift feet,
feet that carried her
everywhere, once.

Outside her window
the burble of the subway,
the traffic driving through
rivers of houses and streets,
all bound for eternity.
Cars make a noise
like leaves in a gale,
or the waves of an ocean,
if you don't listen too keenly.

In here, a fly lands on one foot
walks along her instep
and over her toes.
She is here; I am here;
the fly is here.
I wave it away
and see how the stars are muting
as morning comes in,
becoming fabled, again,
in dove grey, dim,
unfixable light,
edged by the Milky Way.

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