Lamentation by Monika Kostera

King Lear is dead
but miracles are still
likely to come.
The long march has halted,
the heart has fallen out
of the mouth of the city
and lies, like a small bloody animal,
at the crack of the curb.

Miracles are still possible.
Rain is falling on the homeless’
tent city. Should we weep now,
or have we missed the cue
long ago?

The King’s crown of weeds
has been tossed in the air
like a bride’s flower wreath.
He opens his eyes,
no dreams
want to come.

The tide rises, the tide falls like breath.
Miracles
are still likely.