In our hands we hold the shadow of our hands.
The night is kind-- the others do not see us holding our shadow.
We reinforce the night. We watch ourselves.
So we think better of others.
The sea still seeks our eyes and we are not there.
A young girl buttons up her love in her breast
and we look away smiling at the great distance.
Perhaps high up, in the starlight, a skylight opens up
that looks out on the sea, the olive trees and the burnt houses--
We listen to the butterfly gyrating in the glass of All Souls' Day,
and the fisherman's daughter grinding serenity in her coffee-grinder.