The cause of bleeding is the wound. The wound is given the blood and the blood is real. Real blood makes the love real and corporeal, although concealed. Concealed because the corporeality of the love is the sex, the genitals. And the body is become the sex, love’s head being the head of the sex concealed. Now the wound is visible on the body. And this scene which the blood invites is the shape of the tale.

Sex takes on the wounds; the love is sexless. The love is alive, life maintains it, keeps it in the necessities of living, that is, in sustenance and air. Without sex, the love is a love in youth, and by this not in its full shape. The youth gives the love qualities of beauty, what is new, early. This also being apt, pertinent, timely, face up, as a letter. Foreshortened, so that the point of view is very close to the level of the ground. Also lying on the ground are flowers. And being read in the time of year, the time of new flowers, is also the nature of love’s face.

A woman—reading the nature of love’s face—calls this child to come out. There are several children, playing dead, demonstrating many deaths upon the grass. Waiting to be tested by the one who seeks their identities, this woman who is taking the role of an adult.

The players play their deaths as injuries. And their injuries as the escaping blood. The blood is turning like a cord that as it twists creates a simulation—of continuous motion. In this it is quite like a stream—if that, like it, went unrenewed. Light runs from one end of the cord to the other.

Here the woman is, having the name of a month that is the month in which she is walking. She is walking along the hedge. Sweet consonance of her name with the time of year.

Another woman, taking the name of another month, is one of many. She is wearing a shirt. The face is drawn forward over the breasts, shielding the eyes.

The month who called out, over the players, is also the month who sees in the last crop of the first flowers. In the village these are set along the boundary walls and offered for sale. The cut stems of the flowers sit in water. Jars are lined up along the path beside early produce, including the lettuce with its wilted leaves pared from the white stalk. For the alloted days that are belonging under her name she sees to the health of her animals, the land’s maintenance, her own interests on the land. It is during these days that she finds love behind her cottage, at the place where the path opens into the expanse of the field and most particularly in the hollow in the ground, filling with light that is as estranged from a body as a dead body is from its life, being all the more estranged for the hollow being able to hold a body, or two bodies lying close.

The back gate of the cottage opens over a hollow that has collected water. Drops hit the bottom of a metal bucket. Voices from the field travel up and fall towards the ditches. And the music from the marquee fluctuates according to the wind.

Jars are empty of flowers and full of water. My month goes to the village, following the other, on her way back.

My month is climbing back into her ditch. Going with some little flowers. With a face which is of neither sex. With hair curled ambiguously. Without any direct look. A direct look that comes over only mediated. Which mediation is a wound, emotional, psychic that passing, falls to its object. The object is a space between the hollow and her house.