Волны

           Ihavepapersinmyprivatepocketthatproveit.Butyoureyes,Susan,fullofturnipsandcornfields,disturbme.Thesepapersinmyprivatepocket--theclamourthatprovesthatIhavepassed--makeafaintsoundlikethatofamanclappinginanemptyfieldtoscareawayrooks.Nowithasdieddownaltogether,underSusan’sstare(theclapping,thereverberationthatIhavemade),andIhearonlythewindsweepingovertheploughedlandandsomebirdsinging--perhapssomeintoxicatedlark.Hasthewaiterheardofme,orthosefurtiveeverlastingcouples,nowloitering,nowholdingbackandlookingatthetreeswhicharenotyetdarkenoughtosheltertheirprostratebodies?No;thesoundofclappinghasfailed.

           ’Whatthenremains,whenIcannotpulloutmypapersandmakeyoubelievebyreadingaloudmycredentialsthatIhavepassed?WhatremainsiswhatSusanbringstolightundertheacidofhergreeneyes,hercrystal,pear-shapedeyes.Thereisalwayssomebody,whenwecometogether,andtheedgesofmeetingarestillsharp,whorefusestobesubmerged;whoseidentitythereforeonewishestomakecrouchbeneathone’sown.Formenow,itisSusan.ItalktoimpressSusan.Listentome,Susan.

           ’Whensomeonecomesinatbreakfast,eventheembroideredfruitonmycurtainswellssothatparrotscanpeckit;onecanbreakitoffbetweenone’sthumbandfinger.Thethin,skimmedmilkofearlymorningturnsopal,blue,rose.Atthathouryourhusband--themanwhoslappedhisgaiters,pointingwithhiswhipatthebarrencow--grumbles.Yousaynothing.Youseenothing.Customblindsyoureyes.