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.