Same Route
A piece of red sail in the dark blue. Olive trees, posts,
plastic bags, kisses of bathers, faces, hands, and bodies
decayed in time, bitter, but interesting. Cicadas with
voices floating in space, you haven’t paid attention to
them, foreign.
Whether you pay attention or not, whether you listened
to them or not, whether you saw or not, nothing, he said.
A bitter aroma, forgotten, made of mowed grass.
Sit down, then, here on the warmed-up soil, untie, one
by one, the knots of the napkin. Eat your bread, biting
deep, beyond death. Then, the eggshells, so white and
fragile, as evening comes, creak under the feet of the old
blind man who walks serenely, led by a small turtle,
toward the temple in Kolonos.
