The Last Lost Mite
With fresh palm, just out of the seawater.
The gold coin slowly fell into the water, and we followed it
as it settled on the bottom, eyeing us behind the seaweed.
You dipped your hand in the water, he said. You threw in
this coin, which we’ve held for years and years, is like a ticket
to the kingdom of the shadows.
Which wet palm? Which freshness? Which lost seriousness?
This bitter gesture wasn’t a matter of choice, no, no.
Manolis Aligizakis 