The sun has left its sequins on the windowsill and is addressing the plant by names my ears have not heard: Lake-swallowing velvet eel, Glans, Joy-secreting bladder. The flat-leafed fern is flattered, but you can see from its eyes that it does not trust the sun, which caresses all the plants from here to the Pacific. You do not need the sun, I tell the plant; our relationship is so good that you do not even need water. I mix vodka with tomato juice and grasp one of the oval glands that my plant keeps beneath its tongue. I only need to stroke the gland with the tip of my little finger and it gives me a drop, a tear of joy. I mix the drip with my drink and soon seamen are sailing their yawls, sailor boys in their blue and white caps, with cherries stitched to them. They worship the sun on the deck of their sand-yawl and let me lick the cherry. They are still young; they have scales on their fish-eyes. With algae I bind their salty curls, where the sea and the land embrace one another. I scatter flowers around them and oil their periscopes. I do whatever they want. It is a gift that my plant gives me under the sun.