He’s absurd about the fountain.

That the verse be pure
And the letters cut with grace.

For this sorry square,
The brutality of this sun.

When there isn’t even a library.

Or he speaks of the girls
Coming for water.

How that one arranges the light,
Is this year’s accomplishment.

What if she does take the morning
On her? And those breasts?

Already there is gossip
That leaves her only peasants.

To celebrate so a village girl
Soon to be broken.