not much, but still

not every day
but often enough
at midday when shops close
and market women close their mouth
flies find their stony tombs and
rest their wings, and the river
grows thick and sticky with the heat
i think of your black t-shirt
and a necklace with a violet stone
you bought me, what, six years ago,
and even further back
when i knew nothing of what was to come
a day as hot as this
when other flies, as ignorant as these,
were sleeping on the ceiling.