A tumbledown cabin in the woods has purple and blue curtains. One of the windows is broken. «Will I cut myself?». The woods are mysterious and sublime. I say (though I am alone): «Certainly that is a ceibo»—a South American tree, Erythrina crista-galli—«and when I was seventeen I called its flowers, in a poem, flores del odio». Then I add: «In a poem, yes». Now I am inside and a fire burns at the fireplace. «I have rested here before». Then I have a vision of Christ teaching his Apostles. I identify Peter and Judas. I say: «Father!» but he cannot hear. Now I am looking out the cabin and into the woods and I feel an exquisite form of harmony and bliss. Then I see my uncle J, who passed away, walking by. Behind him comes P, my love, who took her life. They look neither sad nor pleased. The windows fog up as I begin to weep. Then I awake.