This village is even dreamier than the original.
Who, for instance, would reproduce the old snakelike impressions of our bodies
In the amber grass, or reenact us, in a thunderstorm, flinging our undergarments
From a cliff? It was lifetimes ago, those times.
Now we cast no shadow over the plucked swans, and are left to sleep in corners
Like a mound of coats. The path to our rowboat is even narrower, dustier; gnats
Blot out the sun. I suppose we can float about
Twirling our parasols, singing “Night & Day,” but does anyone recall the lyrics?
Here: take my hand. These weeds are known to caress one into a witless reverie,
And we are dying for the goldenness of home.