The hills bunch on an empty page.
A shade of rouge on a woman’s cheek.
All day I’ve walked the streets of Capuya…
where the sun was a flute on fire
burnishing a brown river.
Pink and blue bed sheets flapped in the wind.
The daily bread was fresh with light,
and the trellised grapes of the terraced
mountains hung like vases.
If one could etch in wine,
think of the white horizon!
But the streets are narrow and crooked
and take me down to the river
with goats who pick at rubbish
and live in stones and weeds.
At my back the hills are distant,
some red sand leaves dust on the page.