
At noon no one climbs the exterior stairs of the hotel;
the planks creak of the heat; cicadas scream.
A single moment becomes a band of silence.
At this time the voice of the fisherman is heard
from the shore along with the shadows of the grapevine
leaves walking under the outside tables
among the fish-bone and the peach peels.
Reflections of the sea shiver in the shadowed room,
on the light green wall, the bed railings, the white bed-sheets,
on the round belly of the sleeping woman.
Smell of tar and oil paint. They’re probably painting
a big red caique under the cypresses. Perhaps the voices
of cicadas become so strong like a bite on the shoulder
or the neck: a big red caique. It’s not Argo.
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