Giraffes burn apples have hats a child lifts a lake to get his ball either a grinning cat or a horsefaced horse plays fiddle. but seldom am I so relaxed as when I read a Maigret. something Simenon is doing . . cuticles skip ropes the winds of a year blow off the pages of eternity in the face of time the grass burns torn by autumn red hair tears, kerchiefs soaked together my youth chopped down like a young pear tree the coconut souring the mountains worn away and I still live by the river.