Portrait at Sixteen
Beardless, skinny, long-haired,
he makes love to everything:
the lark, the oak, the butterfly, the distance.
Days have no name or date,
they ignore the cage of hours,
they are the same as a desire,
can belong to yesterday or tomorrow.
The streets down there are an open hand,
between whose fingers the sun plays
to nail its fangs.
The deer bellows on the hill,
the yelp of the fox is heard—
their eyes go into the undergrowth
drunk with rain.
The sun yellows his face,
paints his hands westerly,
he leaves his shadow among the pines,
squashes the tiger on the floor.