I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair
look like a throne while you sat on it.
Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,
which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.
I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,
not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,
which has been silent now for months.
In this sunlit moment I think of you.
I can still picture you sitting there--
your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,
the light splashed on your face,
like holy water from St. Joseph’s.
The chair, with rounded curves
like that of a full-figured woman,
seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.
The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,
as if your spirit has come back to rest.
Now a cloud passes overhead,
and I hush, waiting to hear what rests
so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.
Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry
your raspy voice like a wispy cloud.”
A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped Carrot