On Cockroaches

“On a sandy hill, against a dark-blue sky—there is a shaggy pine, all studded with stars; beneath the pine—an amber-reddish, rusty boulder. The pine seems as though it is growing out of stone—its flower. Beyond the hill—there is a lake; in the smoothly polished water, golden cockroaches of reflections stir—reflections of sunken stars. In the distance, in the thick darkness of water and air—there are jagged, yellow cracks—lights of an unseen city…”