Yves Tanguy

Is it a weightless pistol —

your hand.

The tail of smoke

like a limitless conversation

risks blooming and death.

The head of a desert.

A blank crawls parallel to lines of combed hair.

A barometer pursued its dream

without even blinking.

A released piglet

pricked up its rose petal ears

and vanished like a star.

Everyone

waits for everyone

on an unknown

but familiar

infinite chessboard.