In Switzerland

The bell below for dying lengthily

It’s signed like a dormouse Spanish candy

In these mountains of blue straw

This light changes briskly from bright to dark

Peaks dappled with green

The buttery fir forests laugh for coffee

A fetid peasant fog tautens my lips

While my feet plash sleepwalking

The harsh mud is odd in the sun

The fragrance manages to roast Parisian landscapes

Nature kneels before me.

Francis Picabia