Near the end we find a scattered light between the gathering clouds
falling across the yellowing concrete like a memory of a former time
or a glimpse of the way out

On the other side of the world it seems an old churchbell still rings
on Sunday mornings and one remembers what it was like
to sing a hymn in the light of the stained glass windows

A girl wearing a face mask crosses the street
and stands on the far corner for a moment
running her fingers through her hair

A violinist playing on a recording of Beethoven or Brahms
recalls the memory of the orchestra in Carnegie Hall
curling the air like the curlicues on the carved balconies
and the chandeliers and the way the audience sat together
holding its breath, listening to the music

While the moon drifts overhead

In between the telecommunication spires

While people walk over the Brooklyn Bridge
out of the silent city and on to somewhere else