(after Mallarmé)

The moon grew sad. Abstracted seraphim,

weeping with their bows in their hands, in the calm

of misty flowers, played on mortal violas

white sighs glazing the deep blue of His corollas – 

it was the sacred day of your first kiss.

My reverie, content to be martyred like this,

drew a lucid drunkenness from that scent

left without regret or disappointment

by the pruning of a dream in the gardener’s heart.

Eyes on the ancient roadway, I walked apart;

when, your hair wild with the gold of evening

you appeared before me, actual, laughing,

I thought of the fairy with a crown of light

who paced once upon a time through the night

of an only child, letting those half-closed hands of hers

blizzard down white bouquets of fragrant stars.