Even on Trinacria, the
Black-earthed, the wheat giver

even in the heart
of the great-chested Ionian colonist

even with the certitude
of coming brilliance on the water

and of nets riddled with fishes
and of wine around the firelight

even so, before sunrise,
for one hour, and a long one

grey figures steal, shift, rustle

and the toothless centaur
who shivers with disease
goes kissing the children

and the great-chested Ionian colonist
dreams of shipwreck in winter
dreams of white tissue sliding
from the watery dead.