I Have Eaten the Fruit

In the wilderness of words
Baudelaire’s hideout
Mallarme’s lair
It is the symbolic order
That is the forest for the trees

It is the language, unrealized
Waiting for a book
Indicating nothing

In the trees of the word
Mallarme’s bee buzzes
A basket of symbol
A picnic of signified
And only a dream of lace

In the forest of the word
Somewhere is Baudelaire’s dream
Bad flowers, frightened wine
The Palace of the Real
With pillars named

All named, each referring
Only to itself
Where meaning stops