(after Mallarmé)
The smoke rings I cannot blow
seem summations of my soul
one by one by one they roll
scattered with another O
their trembling grey bears witness
to incendiary art
keep your ashen mind apart
from the buried fire’s red kiss
thus whole choirs of romance fly
up to lips unclean with sin
just exclude when you begin
so-called realism’s lie
for with too defined meaning
poetry will never sing
