OK, homestretch.
Third from last.
This is up on the mountain the last time I looked in Greece.
No, next to last.
The terrace of the villa the King's telegrapher
built on the mountain looks down on a blue sea
and the small white ferry that crosses slowly
to the next island each noon.
Michiko is dying in the room behind him
with the long windows open so he will hear the faint sound she
makes when she wants watermelon to suck,
or so he can take her to the bucket in the corner
of the high ceilinged room which is the best they
have for a chamber pot.
She will lean against his leg as she sits so as not
to fall over in her weakness.
How strange and fine to get so near to it.
The arches of her naked feet like
voices of children calling in the distance, his heart as
helpless as crushed birds.