"His fur smells of lightning and clouds"

Is that dog, working his way miraculously
Across the road, a living dog?
His fur smells of lightning and clouds,
But through the drifting atmosphere
His eyes still look innocent
And I doubt if the boulevard
Is wider at all than the space between Betelgeuse and the
Swan.
Agh! If I press my ear hard against the immobile road
I can hear the horrible gallop of the stars, the rumbling of
their vertigo.
Through a crack in the pavement
I see how it is that a star
By its own violence clings
To the empty elusive air
Flying away in all directions.

From "47 Boulevard Lannes" by Jules Supervielle, translated by Geoffrey Gardner. Read the complete poem at the Virginia Quarterly Review.

Boulevard Montmartre at Night, Camille Pissarro, 1897