Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2019

Salut

Salut
Mallarme

Nothing, this foam, virginal verse
Lineates only the cup
In which a distant siren troop
Drowns, bottoms mostly up

Oh my divers friends, we sail,
I already on the stern
You the sumptuous prow cutting
Through winters of thunder and hail

A fine inebriation makes me fight—
Even as you pitch and reel—
To toast while standing upright:

Solitude, reef, star—
To whatever’s worth the white
Anxiety of our sail

Translated on September 6, 2000, for Barbara Guest’s birthday—