她坐在她的玻璃花园里，等待着客人们——拿着蓝橘子的水手，披着语言外衣的鱼，牙齿上衔着左轮手枪的海豚。黄昏从舞台左边进来，它的声音像露珠落在凉亭上。小铃铛在梓树上摇摆。她希望用爱的网捕获什么?花瓣?海螺壳吗?night-moth吗?她不说话。今晚，我告诉她，没有人来;你白白等着。 Yet at eight precisely the moon opens its theatric doors, an arm rises from the fountain, the music box, face down on her tabouret, swells and bursts its cover - a tinkling flood of rice moves over the table. She smiles at me, false believer, smiles and goes in, leaving the garden empty and my thighs half-eaten by the raging twilight.