He was picking through the trash bin
A man of tatters and stains
All foolishness and nerves
I spoke and offered him warm bread
He was still half down into the bin
Then straightening up and turning towards me.
There aren’t adequate words to speak of how his eyes were
Not unlike two candle flames
And he smiled and took the bread
I hurried inside; it was raining
It was always raining in southern Chile
But I glanced back through the window
Where I’d seen him while taking the bread out of the hot oven
And he was gone. Nowhere on the long hill which was all stretched out before me.