Antigone is fair and passed me
with a pair of soft gloves,
thanking me for the purchase.

The inscription on the oil jug
also read, Antigone is Fair .
There too there was a bearded man.
The glaze lines delicately crossed
the girl's hips without scratching the clay.

The old man on the steps outside
waited with pencils in his right hand
and thanked me as I entered,
the left eye, which I knew well from before,
sewed together like a pocket
with vertical threads.

And a few poets,
oarsmen in air music,
an element
of the head,
imagined the meritorious.

In those days
the state
was still like glass
to the visitor.