I cry to you in the night, the house full of street sounds, we're awake and drunk. House, light, stillness, women's clothes on the floor, this is our island life. Men stare at me

in the fruitless weather, spend their hard money on fish and fowl. The way into pain is quicker than the way out of it. The village keeps track of forbidden mysteries.

Outside in the garden a gate hides melons in striped clothing. We tread loudly toward the winter. There is theatrical noise and kissing. Love isn't reasonable! The birds know.

I wait for summer, I want to build churches and schools without clocks, with windows open to wind. In spring there is no dreaming about the sea, we have forgotten to begin with forgiveness.