will out of the kindness of their hearts a few philosophers tell me
what am i doing on top of this hill at Calchidas,in the sunlight?
down ever so far on the beach below me a little girl in white spins,tumbles:rolling in sand.
across this water,crowding tints:browns and whites shoving, the doting millions of windows of thousands of houses—Lisboa. Like the crackle of typewriter,in the afternoon sky.
goats and sheep are driven by somebody along a curve of road which eats into a pink cliff back and up leaning out of yellowgreen water.

they are building a house down there by the sea,in the afternoon.

rapidly a reddish ant travels my fifth finger.
a bird chirps in a tree,somewhere nowhere
and a little girl in white is tumbling
in sand
Clouds over
me are like bridegrooms

Naked and luminous

(here the absurd I;life,to peer and wear clothes. i am altogether foolish,i suddenly make a fist out of ten fingers
voices rise from down ever so far—
there are old men behind me I tell you;several,incredible,sleepy