Probably
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play

It was where the wooden bridge
crosses to Porto Corsini on the open sea
and a few men, in slow motion, lower

Late at night
men entered her ground-floor
room via the window.

A windfall of raucous jeers
swirls down on my bent head.
Earth burns, slant shadows

Now that the last shreds of tobacco
die at your gesture in the crystal bowl,
to the ceiling slowly