d’après Mallarmé

the hair a soaring flame to the far far

west of all desire to unfurl

lies there (I’d say to expire a tiara)

upon its former hearth the crown of curls

but lacking gold to sigh this living cloud

the striking of a flame interior always

originally the one and only now is

in the jewel of truthful or yet laughing eyes

a nudity of tender hero makes too common

that one who finger-strumming star nor fire

naught but to simplify with glory woman

accomplishes by her fulgurating top the flair

of sowing full of rubies doubt’s own scorch

just like a happy and tutelary torch