Down a brick tunnel under the dismal streets of Paris,
Mr. André Breton, pen in hand, interviews a chandelier.
Hungry, I plead for words. He throws a few scraps
from his notes and like a pigeon feasting, I bow at every morsel.
Ink leaks from my nose, dripping onto my lips.
I taste black hills, witness the corn-cobs drenched in butter-sweat,
cawing on the fence at the man dressed as a crow.
Thank you for the meal. Receding with severed wheat-heads
in my pocket, I overhear the chandelier tell Mr. Breton
to allow the reader, in his search for the imaginary,
the dramatic effect of fearing the ground. Mr. Breton replies,
“existence est partout.”