“Les pommes clochards” by Christian Garaud

Possibly I just don’t understand French well enough to appreciate these poems. For example, I don’t know what the title means, really. The bum apples? In any case, the book’s subject is largely domestic interiority (in other words, being inside a house): the way you hear a noise outside and you can’t tell if it’s a big sound far away or a little sound next door. Also, walls themselves distort sounds. This book is largely about listening.
 
I will translate one, to give you a sense. This is poem 9 from section IV:
 
 
 
 
In my sleep, I heard the noise of a door. I turned on the light. He was there, in front of the bed, necktie in hand. How do you make a knot? I got up. Tomorrow he’ll leave. I made some maladroit gestures around his pajama collar, as if I had not quite awoken.
 
 
 
 
 
Was this a dream? Did the guest walk in his sleep? Did I mistranslate the whole thing? These questions may never be fully answered.