They are gathering from afar, my many fortunes, in the hotel
across the bay, nestled among the hills with its grand sour charm:
its tarnished doors, its dark west windows opening on to the sea.
It is sunset, and they are slipping in, light writhing shadows
lifting bronze keys from their hooks, dropping them into pockets.
They sit at the bar, vaguely aware of each other, their many rivals,
but murmur only to themselves in indistinct raving voices, smoke vines
curling above their wine. They are busy dreaming, great fluorescent dreams
of riding towards the sea, and resting in its deep underwater caves.
They have spent the day looking for something. The house, the city,
the place where they finally become visible, and hunting ends.
Each day, they search the sun pressed streets, alluring alleys, hoping
they’ll recognize it, maybe by the blue tiles, the slant of the roof,
music from inside – and if they do, that someone will let them in.
But they have returned, enviously imagining the one of them who is missing.
Drinks done, they ride on old elevators, each lighted box like a confessional
for them to reveal the despair of the day, until they each alight and drift
to their rooms. From afar, how it must look: the rows of windows, blazingly lit
and the dark, and them, my accusing fortunes, sleeping so near to each other.