Surreal images pile up here without much explanation, and the poem seems to want it that way. Its title points to André Breton, so it reads like a playful tribute to a surrealist spirit, though the poem itself never says so directly. In the first stanza, books stuck in snow become camellias or bald men, as if anything trapped and buried can turn into something else, a shape worth remembering and relearning.
The second stanza grows stranger. Music freezes on violin strings, and an ice age "will sound silently." Then comes a hopeful claim: when the books fly open, people will see that mysticism is just an extension of sensuality. The odd image of a man whose belly produces pearls suggests appetite turning into beauty. The closing lines twist themselves into a knot, separating everyone merely understanding each other's words from a deeper, shared understanding. The speaker sounds curious and wry, even tender. The mood is dreamlike, cold on the surface but warmed by a hope for real connection.