Capercaillies

Capercaillies... and will they be coquetries

of peril

or of damson-hued helmets?

Oh! most of all

let her crush a warm suede glove

holding what

little Bengal fire treats!

In the Tyrol, when the woods grow dark, with all

one’s being abdicating a

destiny

worthy, at most, of tasty chromos,

my

remorse: her rudeness, wrongs done,

I free the nasturtiums from her letter.

André Breton