ANDRÉ BRETONThe shoals of fish the hedges of titmice
The rails at the entrance of a great station
The reflections of both riverbanks
The crevices in the bread
The bubbles of the stream
The days of the calendar
The St John’s wortThe acts of love and poetry
Are incompatible
With reading the newspaper aloud
The meaning of the sunbeam
The blue light between the hatchet blows
The bat’s thread shaped like a heart or a hoopnet
The beavers’ tails beating in time
The diligence of the flash
The casting of candy from the old stairs
The avalancheThe room of marvels
No dear sirs it isn’t the eighth Chamber
Nor the vapours of the roomful some Sunday evening
The figures danced transparent above the pools
The outline on the wall of a woman’s body at daggerthrow
The bright spirals of smoke
The curls of your hair
The curve of the Philippine sponge
The swaying of the coral snake
The ivy entrance in the ruins
It has all the time aheadThe embrace of poetry like that of the flesh
As long as it lasts
Shuts out any glimpse of the misery of the world
—mary ann caws