I see a pair of breasts attached to a chair. I dreamed my violin in its case was a child lying in a coffin. never have I wanted to run away so badly; I saw a light behind me and knew there was someone searching through a dense garden. Aaron, take my marble flowers, take them home in November, wrapped in white ribbons for the pretty king; and the royal court looks for your blossoms, looks for your blossoms, looks for the past, looks for the naked boy isolated by time. I see a pair of breasts attached to a chair. he is behind dark twigs where transparent birds perch, there the breast of one universe is offered to an infant of another. oh yellow leaves that fall on dark brown hair, hair falling over the back of a chair . . . ah, Aaron, suspended between two towers, you give me everything but tenderness, blue eyes silent above the flames reaching out of the green elegance of the forest, you withhold yourself continually. small birds rise, copper-colored in the smoke to fly over cold stones far away. I sit naked in a chair surrounded by a circle of fire. You have left me unapproachable. the world and its clouds move under you . . . Aaron, open the door to a million pearls into a room with a large mound of spices in the middle of the floor, an ancient temple room where long fingernails thrust out from the ceiling and walls . . . there, people tell you to die. there, Aaron hates you when you would love him. I remember his eyes on the face inside you; I remember the distorted genitals; I remember the child in the mirror. I see a pair of breasts attached to a chair. I try to be inside you and feel your neediness. I try to live with ambivalences. I walk near a series of wells beside a wall and see the beautiful sneering children who carry their pouches of grievances before their faces; and, still Aaron, I feel your crying teeth in my back. Aaron of the orange trees, not enough dreams and fantasies, not enough time for rituals, nor for dawns and other miracles . . . when I am with you, something ruptures, I am afraid. run down the hill where the dead undress. what does it matter? Aaron saw the woman removing her strange gown of silence.