At the dirt market,
the painter of bottles
works small
and from the inside
with brushes
of eyelash.
He takes requests
but also keeps
a stock of cranes,
stoop-necked
and high-stepping
behind their screen
of rushes and also
mountain villages
materializing
from the fog.
He draws on a cigarette
as he works closer
to the center.
He has decided never
to paint the girl
fording the stream,
her few possessions
held above her head
as though they were
for the mauve
sky alone.