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A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dippedCarrotOn my bed, my green comforterdraped over my knees like a lumpy turtle,I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us.In my own life, the years are beginning to stack uplike a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes,yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in.In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face,and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping woundthat ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpitholds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe.A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino.Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sandslie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache,Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question–If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you findtoday and tomorrow too loud?

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—Jarod Kintz
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