Ancaiano
At the end of August
the moon fixed itself in the sky
as if a pope were about to die.
It got into the olive trees.
It got into the porcupine.
It got into the stone. Into the guts.
Held its position till morning.
Owl-tremour, dog-bark, cock-crow.
My window my lover.
The blue had gone
and the house was washed in sun.
A cherry tree rattling in the breeze.
A redstart perched on the house.
I saw an eagle soaring upwards,
with a long snake in its mouth.
