No less lost, he wakes to split his eyelids to the sun
on water he can’t instantly name,
drifts in café conversation for a phrase to rise to recognition,
the woman whose name he never says in the day now leaving him.

His flag drapes from old windows in the rain where every flat’s an embassy
and even the cobblestone girls arm-in-arm know the election’s been won.
He was never to blame.  Sorrow made the walking easy.
Bells carol each face through the Gates of Principo to someone.

When daylight abandons the sea, May’s an island only by its light,
far from grass and deathbeds he remembers against his cheek.
The harbour lamp speaks of history but has no insight.
Because its grace is patience the earth inherits its meek,

including a few friends who must by now be waking,
as if finally home, beyond the wide, inbound tumble of waves breaking.