Level crossing

From the blow of a stick it had been flowers

And blood

The ray alit on the frosted window

Nobody

Pfff one understood space was emptying

Then the pillow of air had slipped under the sainfoin

Avalanches had lifted their head

And inside stones shoulders had been raised

The eyes were still closed in distrustful water

From the depths arose the triple collaret

That was going to make the armoire proud

And the cicadas’ song took its ticket

At the depot still wrapped in all its wires

The woman gnawed a steam head

On the knees of a large white animal

In the workshops on the silent benches

The plane of the moon smoothed the cutting leaves

And the millstone spat its butterflies

Onto the edge of the paper I’m writing on

André Breton