Centaur
Morning and the horses neigh
tied onto the froth of impenitent sea
rustle of naked leaves punished
leaves forty times lashed by the winds
climbs on the shoulder-blade of Sunday
and on the Pelion waters.
Here the blood of serpents poisons
the ripen languor of serenity
like rust the veins of marble and
time gathers the wings of ash
to debate with the blond gables
now that in the sleep of the olive tree
the spider forms its wrinkly netting.
In the fields the lustful sprouts
quiver and bathe
in the fountain of convulsion.