With its pedastal of quinine tablets
In the open country
The author of the Poems is lying flat on his face
And near him a dubious heloderm keeps vigil
His left ear laid to the ground is a glass box
Filled with a lightning bolt the artist hasn't forgotten to depict above him
The sky-blue balloon in the shape of a Turk's head
The swan of Montevideo whose wings are outspread and always ready to flap
When it's a question of luring the other swans from the horizon
Opens upon the false universe two eyes each a different color
The one iron sulfate on the lashes' creeping vines the other diamond-studded mud
He sees the great funnelled hexagon in which the machines will shrink soon
The ones man's determined to cover with bandages
With his radium candle he rekindles the human crucible
The sex of feathers the oil paper brain
He presides over doubly nocturnal ceremonies whose point once allowing for fire is to
transpose the hearts of men and birds
I have access near him as a convulsionary
The ravishing women who usher me into the rose-upholstered railroad car
Where a hammock they've taken pains to make from their hairs is reserved for me
For all eternity
Enjoin me before departure not to catch cold while reading the daily
It appears that the statue near which my nerve ending's witchgrass
Reaches its destination is tuned each night like a piano