Spring 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 2 Poetry |

Mallarmé’s Tomb

His sail should be his tomb, since no Breath on this earth could convince The skiff of his voice to say no To the river's summons of light. Here, he said, is Hugo's loveliest verse: "The sun set, this evening, in the clouds." Water turns to fire, when nothing can add Or remove: and by that fire he's consumed. We see him blur, far away, as his boat Fades from view. At its prow, what's he Waving? We can't tell—not from here. That's how people die? And who's he talking to? What'll be left of him, when night comes on? Plowing the river, this two-colored scarf . . .

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Poetry

By Cynthia Cruz

His sail should be his tomb, since no Breath on this earth could convince The skiff of his voice to say no To the river's summons of light. Here, he […]

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