… Mysticis umbraculis

(For the Feast of Fools)

from Mallarmé

She was asleep: her finger trembled, with no amethyst on it
and bare, under her shirt: after a sad sigh,
it halted, lifting the linen to her navel.

And her belly seemed to be the snow
where, while a sunbeam gilds the forest again,
the mossy nest of a bright goldfinch might have fallen.