The light is black, sunburnt, like a human body.

Strong feet, barefoot, stained by the sea or the must;

firm breasts held in the palms of the sun. The worker,

the grapevine pruner, the boatman, his three daughters

hang over deep golden wells. They thresh long

wheatears in the threshing floors; chaff gets

in the children’s eyes. They run. The grapevine fields

are endless like glory or ignorance. If you bend a little

your whole body might sink in the light-blue. Windows

have already sunk in the soil and these red flowers

of the garden come from those ancient statues, leaning

and having an erection.

Little Chores

During the whole afternoon, alone at the seashore,

he collected white, pink, light-blue pebbles

with such care and attention that he smiled

at himself suspicious of his attention and care,

for his little chore, for the colors, for the world.