The Death of Stéphane Mallarmé
When the skyscreen goes dark, the cloud comes hovering,
it is a fiction of imagining:
it never speaks, though all hearts strain
attuned to it attentively
and the column of fire, flash in the night--
what will not be quenched remains unquiet,
quicksilver-driven from dawn to dawn
the fluid horizon of desire.
Inscribed in the bone, particulate sphere
the cloud claims its own:
dust drawn to dust, erasure of flesh,
the horror. And all in the end is undone:
more time no more, no one, no promises--
pillar of cloud, pillar of fire.