just thee to compare
to this summer day—
at whose end we stand
and look out to the sea
ruffled by slight turbulence
we, however, do not fret at clouds
(in the sense of "blown over")
we live in well-lit sweeps
of landscape, macchia cushions the slopes
lawns have fresh haircuts
their blades plucked with sugar tongs
now here's the question what will you stress
when terraces are drifting under the
constellation of clover
and our life be as we may think
someone says human flourishing
another oxytocin some
lie on sofas and listen to music
chant scattered books and papers
someone drinks wine
but soon we must travel
armed with the scraps of italian
tossed to us (the hyperborean dogs)
while on the table of language
rest silver spoons

Translated by Rosmarie Waldrop