By Claude Esteban
Around the bend of a phrase
you return, it’s dawn in a book, it’s
a garden, one can
see everything, the dew, a moth
on a leaf and it’s you
who rises suddenly amid the pages
and the book grows more lovely
because it’s you
and you've not grown old, you walk
slowly to the door.
Source: Poetry (June 2011).
Translated from the French by Joanie Mackowski