d’après Mallarmé

what silk in the balm of time

where the Chimera yawns out loud

is worth the writhing native cloud

that beyond your mirror you wind

of thoughtful flags the holes you mind

rise high in our crowd

me I’ve the bare head proud

to bury my contented eyes

no the mouth shall not know quite

it’s tasted anything in its bite

if he do not your lover regal

in the considerable tuft

like a diamond exhale

the cry of Glories he has snuffed