Quiet night. Quiet. And you had stopped
waiting. It was peaceful almost.
And suddenly on your face the touch, so vivid,
of the one who is absent. He’ll come. Then
the sound of shutters banging on their own.
Now the wind has come up. And a little farther, the sea
was drowning in its own voice.
*
We spent glances, words, movement.
At noon we would gaze toward the sea somehow at a loss
among the sounds of cicadas, among the leaves—
scattered looks so that we wouldn’t see what we’d already seen.
In the evening the shade hid our separate shadows.
[…]
The night smelled of extinguished candles.
*
How can you choose between the already chosen?
*
As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels his pencil trembling at the very tip—
it’s the moment when the lighthouses light up.