Two Poems

Duff Axsom

In Mallarmé's Mirror

             the soul is
like the cat
             or dancer,
             mewling, spiraling,
             self-contained.
One face, one
movement,
a voice:
             a reflection direct.

But, in the towering,
             twisting gyre,
             dream
             is the mirror.
             Now, no more
than object, symbol falls,
broken, its flowering incomplete.

***

Likely snow

We met on the subway, talked above the watery metal noise
and time flowed. She questioned my book,
gently laughed at my green wool coat.
I got off at the station.

Outside there was evidence that it had likely snowed.

Her dark friend was waiting to meet her, he joined us.

The three of us were on the north side above the river.
I needed to cross.

I slid down the ridge of the smooth cement wall—
the one by the cinema—to the road.
The one along the north side of the river.
The staircase did not go all the way.

The bridge to cross the river
was still some distance.
There were two cold,
brinded cats mewling.

We went up a very narrow street shadowed
between old houses and lightly lit shops.

We paused, went into the beer hall.
There were few in the warm beer hall.
So, we sat at a long, worn oak bench—
at the one communal table.

The young man began to ask me those questions:
what I was reading, what my shopping had been,
why I had a blue wool coat.

He started dancing, a silly jig,
and joyfully slid
under the beer mottled table.
He came up at my knee, clowning,
peering from underneath.

Oh, is it her? And the hall would be empty,
but for the brinded ones,
one or two or three of us.

Duff Axsom is a veteran member of the Cloud View Poets master class with David St. John. He has had poems published in Runes, The Cloud View Poet anthology and a poet's collective chap book, The Janitor at Radio City Music Hall. His chap books are: Aten and Summoning the Birds. Duff is a photographer who lives in San Francisco and works as a nonprofit consultant.

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