This year the arsonist burns his own room.
If the lilac blooms, it has its reasons.

I must confess to everything.

The lighthouse as an image
of loneliness has its limits.

For as we stand on the shore

OK, it’s sunny, otherworldly, skintight,
where we’re flabby and clouded over, pining away

In the diner the busboy counts the empty stools and looks at his reflection in the coffee urns. On the radio the announcer says the allies have won another victory. There have been few casualties.

It's all talk isn't it, emblem
and suggestion, it's either tremulous stutter
or taunting display: flashy but fleshless, a con man

When you unzip your dress
a thousand insects run for cover,

Like angels, we live many lives at once,
hovering over one with house plans, one unrequited,

I was a thumbnail sketch of the universe.

What is so strange about Desnos is that he says he is not afraid of going crazy, of dying, or even of the Nazis who are always watching him.