L’orage du sang
does not exist,
is « sanguine ».
Sang means blood, so sanguine.
I once drank sang-
ría with pieces of orange
and apple floating in it – existentially.
I thought that it tasted real, of oranges
and looked like blood.
I knew I existed
because I had read « Sanguine ».
The man explained,
indiquant au poignet, it’s as in sang
and then « gris », a colour (like orange)
and « a » is the last syllable like « ine » in sanguine.
Half a Poem
La lune est toujours là
I suppose you could say
elle ne brille pas
her, she, instead of it
elle réfléchit la lumière.
like we do with ships and
Faite de la cendre et de la poussière
girls, women – never tables or chairs.
elle est devenue une sphère dure
She is, I mean, has become a hard
après l’explosion quelque chose d’isolé et mûr.
sphere…[something], something isolated and mature.
On la regarde avec des télescopés
Err, we watch her – no it – with telescopes
on suit la grande misanthrope
we follow it, that is, the great misanthrope
au cas qu’elle connait une éclipse.
in case she knows [?] an eclipse.
*The moon is always there/ she does not shine/ she reflects the light. / Made
of ashes and dust/ she became a hard sphere/ after the explosion an isolated
and mature thing. / We watch her with telescopes/ we follow the great
misanthrope/ in case she goes into eclipse.
Looking down Mount Etna
He never suffers
from altitude sickness
three quarters of the way
up, on the rung of rock.
A sanctuary. Not once
has the refugee
from his interim,
to the forest,
cliffs and then the sea
below. That is, since
he was displaced
all those years ago.
He’d haul himself
from his town, down
if it ever were too much.