mallarme: sea change

By | 1 May 2017

the body complains unfortunately and I’ve read all the books
shall I run away to where it is warmer? I believe birds
get drunk on the void between spray and sky

nothing not the familiar gardens seen on gazing into eyes
will keep back those who plunge into the sea
on such nights not the desert clarity of my lamp
on the blank paper’s forbidding white
nor the young woman feeding her baby

no I’m going the steamer with its jutting spar
sets off for a world of strangeness

boredom is made worse by such hopes
and always falls for the handkerchief waving goodbye
but maybe these masts cruising for storms
are the sort that a gale sucks into a wreck and
we are lost dismasted far from green islands
but desire listen

to the song of the sailors

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