by Alix Ervinne
Above the tropic of cancer, the northern celestial blossomed with stars:
eleven for twins Castor and Pollux;
ten for the fiend slayed by the great hunter, Orion; and
eleven for the beast killed by Hercules
Above the tropic of cancer, fifty stars sang:
the twelfth about sunshine and moonshine where the scorpion waited
the twenty-second about stars that fell in a field of white where the lion slept
Above the tropic of cancer, a town where a ram with blue horns lie:
where masons once built with soil, sand, and lime
the twins and the fiend
heard the murmurs of the beast
Above the tropic of cancer, where the brick mortar hid twinkling lies:
the scorpion lay awake
the lion continued to whisper
the fiend waited for the beast to strike
Under the tropic of cancer, the southern celestial still bright:
Castor saw sunshine and felt moonshine,
while Pollux dreamt of a field of white