III
The crop of September
rosy rinds hold up the house
among the thousand deaths
they hold it up
while the unreachable moon
passes over our dreams.
Such care that I didn’t notice
the small worm
behind the eucalyptus at the spring
behind the mountain
the small worm, tool of the devil,
small insignificant it slid
down from the cloud to the shrub
and bit the leaf…
we lost the crop, we the ignorant
in the balcony, were foreseeing
the crop of the house
Greece, the next morning
I found you changed.
Libros Libertad 