the sort most recently acclimated to France that produces seeds of that purple foxglove whosefull flavor has not yet been savored. She was walking back and forth in a corridor apartment likethe corridor pull-mans of the great European express trains, the one difference being that thelight shed by the lamps did not clearly pick out the lava flows, the minarets, and the greatindolence of the beasts of the air and the water. I coughed several times and the train in questionglided through tunnels, put suspension bridges to sleep. The divinity of the place staggered.Having caught her in my arms, all rustling, I placed my lips on her throat without a word. Whathappens next escapes me almost entirely. It is only later that I find us again, her in a terribly bright-colored outfit that makes her look like a gear in a brand-new machine, me buried asdeeply as possible inside this impeccable black suit that I have not taken off since.Meanwhile, I must have passed through a cabaret run by very elderly Leaguers whom my civilstatus threw into a bird's perplexity. I also remember a crane raising packages heavenward thatmust have been hair, and, my God, how frighteningly light they were. Then it was the future, thevery future itself. The Flame-Child, the marvelous Wave of just a while before, guided myfootsteps like garlands. The small cracks in the sky finally awoke me: there was no more park,no more night or day, no more white burials conducted by glass hoops. The woman who wasstanding near me caught sight of her feet in a puddle of winter water.Looking back I no longer see clearly, it is as if a waterfall stood between the theater of my lifeand me, who am not the principal actor in it. A much-cherished buzzing accompanies me, alongwhich grasses yellow and even break. When I say to her: "Take this smoked glass which is myhand in your hands, an eclipse is here," she smiles and dives into the seas to bring back the branch of blood coral. We are not far from the meadow of death and yet we take refuge from thewind and from hope in this faded salon. I have dreamed of loving her the way one loves inreality. But I have not been able to rid myself completely of half a green lemon, her scull-likehair, the inadvertence of traps for catching animals alive. She is sleeping now, facing the boundlessness of my loves, in front of this mirror that earthly breaths cloud. It is when she isasleep that she really belongs to me; I enter her dream like a thief and I truly lose her as one losesa crown. I am stripped, surely, of golden roots, but I hold the strings of the storm and I keep thewax seals of crime.