By Guy Jean
Versions by Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Farris
Une clôture à perte de vue. Une foraine en équilibre jongle. Ses jambes entrouvertes invitent le rêveur.
Les drapeaux se branlent. Grisaille de novembre. Crevasse entre saisons, expiation pour les excès des récoltes et l’oubli des labeurs généreux.
Au réveil il met le masque des dimanches, court dans la ville, met le feu à ses amours. Un cœur y bat-il encore?
Il enterre. Son deuil laboure l’hiver. La tempête enneige ses errances.
Il fouille au-delà des yeux. Le mirage d’un feu de bois, d’une femme en chaleur, dans le froid à perte de vue.
A fence. As far as the eye can see. A fence.
The traveling gypsy, performs as she walks along it, she juggles.
Her legs opened, partly. To invite the dreamer.
Flags along the fence. They wave. November.
Gray wind. Crevice between November and January, atonement for excesses of the fruits in harvest. For the forgetting, for the labors
A generous forgetting. To invite the dreamer, as he walks.
As he walks, he puts on the face of Sundays, his mask; he roams through the city streets, sets fire to his loved one’s apartment.
A heart there—does it beat still? It beats.
He calms. His mourning ploughs the winter. He calms.
The snow drops on his steps as his legs lift and fall.
It beats. With his eyes he wants to touch the earth.
He does not see in a wood-fire, what he wants is to touch.
He does not see it in a woman in heat, what he wants is to touch.
That coolness, a loss of sight. He wants.
As far as the eye can see.