They're lying on a Mexican blanket,
she's on her back with her knees up
and he leans on one elbow,

If there is a God, he has a lot to answer for.
Crocuses, purple cups that bloom through snow.
Cerulean, cornflower, azure, turquoise, ultramarine.

The dim prospects from this window make me ask
if should I hold you in the half-light—when morning

swaddles me in partial truth, when the difficulties

O my seventh year, the year I turned seven
O wondrous moment of departure
After you everything that happened happened in a mass of craziness and
    insanity

A window for seeing
A window for hearing
A window like a well
that ends deep in the heart of the earth
and opens out into this expanse of recurring blue kindness
A window that overfills the tiny hands of loneliness
with its nightly gift: the perfume of generous stars
And from there one could invite the sun
to the geraniums in exile
One window is enough for me

A child walks by,
clutching in its small hand 
the blueprint of happiness. 

Maria, you are dead.
But you probably knew that.
We miss you.

Now he is embarrassed even to ask her for a cigarette. His mother would not have refused him, but his mother doesn't smoke. Neither does he. It was only a pretext.

honing their teeth
on the current
that is always against them.

                                                  Plato

                                                  in his tree