Outside Florence's walls in the hissing grass
the olive-pickers snooze, under the olives;

one's hands lie across his chest, like the tomb-sleeper's;
his dusty boot thrown over the other's.

The ground around them, and the unattended fruit,
drink heat. Either the pickers are waiting

for their nets to sprout in the sun or for the olives
to invent a means of ripening slower.