o
danse mon papillon noir!
Within the circle of my brain
The twisted dance continues.
The patient acolyte of pain,
The strong beyond our human sinews,
The singed reveller of the fire,
Caught on those horns that toss and toss,
Losing the end of his desire
Desires completion of his loss.
o
strayed from whiter flames that burn not
o
vagrant from a distant star
o
broken guest that may return not
o
danse danse mon papillon noir!
Goldfish
(Essence of Summer Magazines)
Always the August evenings come
With preparation for the waltz
The hot verandah making room
For all the reminiscent tunes
- The
Merry Widow
and the rest -
That call, recall
So many nights and afternoons -
August, with all its faults!
And the waltzes turn, return;
The
Chow/ale Soldier
assaults
The tired Sphinx of the physical.
What answer? We cannot discern.
