—after Mallarmé
By your cloud still struckLow with lava and ash
Into the enslaving echo
Of the worthless blast
What a hollow wreck (still spuming,
but with a drool) as you know
Towering over the destruction
Consummated in its riven mast.
Or was it in a rage
Of some great perdition
That this abyss was so vainly whipped up
White white hair falling
Down so stingily to drown
the cheeks of a child siren.
Shadows
Shadows with before
let breathe reflect
condemned as full
gathers light upon
the profoundest tip
surfacing impediments
of flattened midnight
in its expect.
Now I watch the taste
of recognition frontal
as the note drawn out
of pocket strikes
the flanks and wedges
glimmer promising
the pout of day’s lip.
I raise my shuteye
to the angle vagrant
as instruct swills
the wary grip, full
of reason to rip
the pamper off of it.
You and your company
part lines without
subtraction, retaining
the coherence as it rages,
clue to the twist
Due suffered in the lapse.
This has happened once
before conformity exploded
want as a train pulling
Out to circle back
to identical waves
of madness, the dream
Of suggestion’s prospect.
Each is a disaster.
The sun sets on the moon.