(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