The Hinge

I reached for the water, just a reach,

a simple tilt toward the glass.

My spine gave a sound like stones on a beach

or a mower in tall, dry grass.

A stack of wet plates, a sudden slide,

a grinding of bone on bone.

It’s a secret failure I carry inside

that makes itself loudly known.

The glass has a film of morning dust,

the water is flat and grey.

I am leaning on nothing but habit and rust

to get through the rest of the day.