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Show SQUALOR The dwarf lime-trees tied to their stakes must be digging through the underpinnings of the porch. House paint bleeds across the doubled panes-or have the garden flowers' colors simply oozed out of the flowers?- and not one swallow has risen unrejected into the air. The massive green wilderness has awakened among the tumuli of excavations for its Aztec, sleeping gods-Quetzalcoatl and Tlaloc-who, like us, wish only to remain in their rooms. Each year the season brings us back for no other reason than to waste our days sunning on the beaches, but instead, like the scudding black clouds, we're only staggered by the light now, now the sun. |