what am I to leave, careless and tired,
to chance to represent my dream,
chosen as evidence of an invisible process
with no apparent thread?
no, I never wait long enought,
never enough long,
to repeat the song
just as I heard it,
framed in the paraphrenalia
of all my books, in every least thought
I chanced to record,
to once more rearrange the figures
of what represents its total order
plus mistaken points of reference
that at one time were near enough
not only as signs
but within the accidental tracings
of diagonal colors, reminders
of token space,
now too quickly gone
"A hundred posters absorbing the gold not understood of days,
a treason of the letter, have fled..."
Mallarme, "La Gloire"