Small bundles of rotting vines smoke beside
The beanfields, the bells have called the sardine
Boats back into shore, and the fires are lit
That have nearly blackened the tufa walls.
Fish scales glitter on the abandoned stalls,
And everywhere now the smell of limestone
Mixes with peppers and olive oil, smoke
And dung … How often I’ve stood here, bored
With reading in the late afternoon, stood
At the hotel window, watching, as though
From an empty waiting-room, while the sun
Drifted off through the hills. And this evening
I’ve stood a long time staring out through those
Gradually emptying streets, as though
The streets now held some promise of desire,
Like the blue shadows of the olive groves
Drifting downhill toward the abandoned square,
The leaves slowly combing the mild sea-air.
Leave a Reply