The smell of a fig tree
        conjures sexual readiness
                 in the hot light of afternoon.
                 The leaves of the abutilon
are flecked with sun and shadowy
        above a terra-cotta vase

and tremble with the plaintive
        cries of cats, the wail
                 of peacocks or stifled
agitation of doves
                 through hours jalousied
        and close, while

lemons ride pendulous,
        lamplike, heavy,
                 noctilucent
in perfumed arbors
                 fogged with salt,
        in ravines plunging to the sea,

and discords of metal
        ring the hour
                 and then, a minor third below,
the quarter,
                 as if on reliquary skulls
        of Diomede or Basilio,

Eastern saints
        translated here
                 and tolling back
through capital innocence
        those who will never
                feel the hieratic

mysteries advance,
        except as each sense begs
                 down dappled pergolas to
quench the light of lemons
                 and through
        the body, hush the loud smell of figs.