On the road to San Romano

Poesy’s made in a bed like love

Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things

Poesy’s made in the woods

It has the space it needs

Not this the other conditioned by

The kite’s eye

Dew on a horsetail

The memory of a frosty bottle of Traminer

on a silver tray

A tall anchor-shank of tourmaline on the

ocean

And the route of mental adventure

That climbs perpendicular

A halt it’s overgrown at once

That is not shouted on the rooftops

It is inconvenient to leave the door open

Or to call witnesses

Shoals of fish rows of titmice

The rails at the entrance of a great station

Two shores’ reflections

Cracks in bread

Bubbles in the stream

Calendar days

Touch-and-heal

The act of love and the act of poesy

Are incompatible

With reading the paper in a loud voice

The sense of a sunbeam

The blue glimmer that ties again the

ax-blows of the lumberjack

The string of the kite shaped like a heart or

a hoop-net

The measured beating of beavers’ tails

Lightning’s diligence

Throwing sugared almonds from the top of

the old stairs

Avalanches

The chamber of prestige

No gentlemen it’s not Chamber No. 8

Nor barrack-room haze of a Sunday night

Dance figures executed transparently on

ponds

The delimitation of a woman’s body on a

wall in thrown knives

Bright volutes of smoke

The locks of your hair

The curve of the Philippines sponge

Ivy entering into ruins

It has all time before it

The poetic embrace like the embrace of flesh

While it lasts

Forbids any vista of the world’s misery

André Breton