The wind picks up, drags salted rain all through
the city. And you, waiting for the bus,
decide against one lifetime for another.
It happens casually as losing keys,
or dreaming evil, or the routine sea
pulsing through galaxies of knotty net.
Love’s last and longest question, “What was I
before we met?” lies down and dies.
A spell loses its teeth, a fever fails.
And somewhere near the coast, some bird will wear
her wings out for the last time as she sails
for long-remembered nests. She won’t arrive.
And suddenly you say, What has this world
to do with me? You miss your bus, you run.