He believes, he believes, the gray-eyed one
who puts your shards together.
(Cleft saucers are mended in Vitebsk.)
The brown-eyed one who patches your shoes
has limping fingers. His eyes too believe.
And the eyes of the flaxen-haired, the black-
braided, who move in a trance, making dainties
from wisps. Delicate-limbed, they are grateful
for love on straw beds. All of the people in Vitebsk
are awry with tenderness. Because all things
here believe. Even the threshold dust rises