They lie after loving in a shuttered room,
lit with an underwater vagueness,
replete with jasmine. They hear but
do not listen to the hoopoe calling
in the almond tree or the goats clinking
softly in the olive grove. They no longer
even hear the roar of the cicadas.
She lies in his arms. They sink into sleep,
lovers drowsing in a perfumed sea.
The spate plucks willows weeping from the banks
and careers them swirling, whether or not,