In the yard
A rusted tap
Underneath a flowering oleander.
Behind the oleander is a door.
It’s occupied now by a doubtful shadow.
The shadow counts the drops as they fall
Into a stagnant pool.
In the house
The sun is unique,
Radiant as the scales of some dead fish;
And the tight oleander flowers
Seem like the nipples of a pregnant woman
Thrusting in the crisis of her labour.
How dark the green of this oleander branch!
How dusky this oleander scent!
And the tart glue on the flowers,
Oh, how seductive it is, in the sun,
For all the flies of the house.