The pan-pipes

For the festival of Hyacinthus

he gave me a syrinx, a set of pipes made

from well-cut reeds joined

with the white wax

that is sweet to my lips like honey.

He is teaching me to play, as I sit on his knees;

but I tremble a little.

He plays it after me, so softly

that I can scarcely hear it.

We are so close that we have

nothing to say to one another;

but our songs want to converse,

and our mouths are joined

as they take turns on the pipes.

It is late:

here comes the chant of the green frogs,

which begins at dusk.

My mother will never believe

I spent so long

searching for my lost waistband.