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Foreigner's Cycle
1-Octobre
Crystal air and a high blue note;
the green lion strides past cold bees,
a young naked man
laughs on his pedestal.
Inside, a despair stings,
then there is a small white stone on the ground.
Two lines of club-footed trees
brandish their thousand claws
in front of the red castle.
2-Fevrier
The air smells like a hearth;
the dead ones burn in the park after the storm.
Bodies of warmth like infants
sleep swaddled in wind,
a small girl races
across the forbidden grass to wake them.
The trees are eager for it, too;
scratching at the clouds
with their feverish thorns,
revealing here and there a blue ankle.
3-Avril
My soul, that little dynamo,
is green
not gray, today,
overjoyed to find fellows
in the leaves
and a wide blue eye in the sky.
At dusk, the sun sings
a foreign lullaby,
made for abbeys,
full of wheat.
Still the sun though, still the sky
leaf anonymous
grief autonomous,
human pigeon rat and fly.
-By Jennifer Mason
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