Tomorrow everything will be even
worse, I know: habit, inertia,
life without remedy – so little
to be salvaged.
Throughout the city, strangers
will climb another step into the dark
of night, and memory will perhaps
hold a remorse:
that sunny morning
on the veranda, the wind chime
made of small silvery fish in a rosary
of profane beads.
Do you still have it? Does it still sing
at dawn when the wind blows
from the sea?
It doesn’t matter. It was always too little
the lot we asked for
and the share we got.