Not to search for meaning， but to reedify a gesture， an intent.

    As a translator， one grows attached to originals.

    Seldom are choices so purposeful.

    At midday， the translator meets with the poet at a café at the intersection

    where for decades whores and cross-dressers have lined up at night for passers-by to peruse.

    Not a monologue， but an implied conversation.

    The translator's response is delayed.

    The translator asks， the poet answers unrestrictedly.

    Someone watches the hand movements that punctuate the flow of an incomprehensible dialogue.

    They're speaking about the poet's disillusionment with Freud.

    One after another， vivid descriptions of the poet's dreams begin to pour out of his mouth.

    There's no signal of irony in his voice.

    Nor a hint of astonishment， nor a suggestion of hidden meanings，

    rather a belief in the detritus theory.