Through Both
The second time something slips from his hand, he does not move right away. He studies the distance between intention and consequence. It looks smaller than it behaves.
A nurse passes the doorway without stopping. There is no urgency in the room that belongs to him. He considers the floor as if it were a decision rather than a surface.
When help arrives, it is already formatted. Questions are unnecessary. She picks up the fallen object before he can explain how long he has been looking at it.
He asks for his things to be placed within reach. The sentence feels almost formal. The table shifts closer. The water glass.
For a moment he watches his reflection bend across the water. Then the image loosens and drifts toward the window.
She leaves.
By the time the door closes, the water has stopped trembling.
now alone
his water glass
holds the window
a cloud moving
through both.
Michiya is an emerging writer focused on tanka prose and short-form lyric narrative.