Postman Cheval

We are the birds always charmed by you from the top of these belvederes

And that each night form a blossoming branch between your shoulders and the arms of your well beloved wheelbarrow

Which we tear out swifter than sparks at your wrist

We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when man sleeps

And shining holes appear in his bed

Holes through which stags with coral antlers can be seen in a glade

And naked women at the bottom of a mine

You remembered then you got up you got out of the train

Without glancing at the locomotive attacked by immense barometric roots

Complaining about its murdered boilers in the virgin forest

Its funnels smoking jacinths and moulting blue snakes

Then we went on, plants subject to metamorphosis

Each night making signs that man may understand

While his house collapses and he stands amazed before the singular packing-cases

Sought after by his bed with the corridor and the staircase

The staircase goes on without end

It leads to a millstone door it enlarges suddenly in a public square

It is made of the backs of swans with a spreading wing for banisters

It turns inside out as though it were going to bite itself

But no, it is content at the sound of our feet to open all its steps like drawers

Drawers of bread drawers of wine drawers of soap drawers of ice drawers of stairs

Drawers of flesh with handsfull of hair

Without turning round you seized the trowel with which breasts are made

We smiled at you you held us round the waist

And we took the positions of your pleasure

Motionless under our lids for ever as woman delights to see man

After having made love.