The first glimpse I saw was of her narrow foot
sliding easily along the burning pines
where the air was big with heat;
trembling, an almost-white blaze shot forth.
The cicadas were quiet. More rocks were crapped
into the streams. Resin flowed copiously
down the creaking tree trunks.
I recognized the voice of the green snake.
I caught up with her in the olive grove.
I saw her in the copper-cerulean shadows
striding backwards, her tawny head
without silver or palladium flying through
without a sound. Further on, there was no stubble;
Fallodola leaped into a clean groove;
I shouted, I shouted her name to the sky,
then her name I called again.
Among the oleanders I saw her turn.
Like a bronzy mass of wheat
mowed down she entered them, and they closed behind her clamorously.
Further on, flowing down the beach between the strands of seaweed,
she twisted her foot and fell.
Stretched out and fallen between the sand and Pacque.
The west wind skimmed my hair.
Immense was her appearance, immense her nudity.