above the line of the mole. single points, the water
glimmers up yellow when the sun whispers through the

clouds, the hand curves round to catch the light
on the iris. into the picture eyelashes hang

the guide-rail of the lid, on which the sails slide
out to sea, gills, and the shore moves along

towards the harbour. the hair is following the wind
which goes back a long way, on the skin of the houses

cartilage is protruding and the shutters
are gasping for air. as though all hinged on the rhythm

of the drops which are beating against the stone stairs
but the pressure in the fingers wanes

they set the light free and take the head along
out to the boats which have long been looking

like small glassy bones, the swell is hiding them
proffering them

translated by Richard Dove