Allegories, festivals were we all, for intoning and walking and walking always away from that unknown rumble. Suddenly we would slow to greet effusions to a lagoonal metonym audibly separated from a salty poem to be propelled about the recurrent streets of Montevideo. Or to have a tea feast at the Americana Patisserie, where sometimes Esther would appear, who after hugging us and kissing us would smile at us with that look that even now, alive or dead, joins us.

Who cares now how we continue? [Who cared when I care tumbled Tuesday unnoticed, alone, into the mer?]* Yawning, everyone has realized that neither do I translate ("a continuation of nothingness," as Macedonio said) nor are you a minor poet or a Rodin thinker. [We're both left at the corner waiting while he's before the bobería.]* It occurred to me, thankfully, that you spent your first years not in Mexico, but in Cincinnati, two blocks east of Rodin St., not far from the park. And that on that street every night an impassable muster of insomniac words offered themselves up to the gobbling gluttonous poets.

Calla tea, please.

*Translator's Note