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