The cart-drivers passed. Mules loaded with grapes.

Trucks brought gravel for the resurfacing of the road.

All day long the cicadas on the poplars and in the graveyard.

The fingers of the young driver are oily. This. Nothing.

Not one consistent thought, not any invention.

You could only discern a ladder leaning on the bare

wall, as the evening came, and a basin without water

at the back side of the garden under the hanging purple

flowers of the climbing clematis. These details are meant

to be sealed by the afternoon moon, giving you, finally,

the sense that you knew where you were going.