A slash of angular blacks

Like a fractured edifice

That was buttressed by blue slats

In a coma of the moon.

A slash and the edifice fell,

Pylon and pier fell down.

A mountain-blue cloud arose

Like a thing in which they fell,

Fell slowly as when at night

A languid janitor bears

His lantern through colonnades

And the architecture swoons.

It turned cold and silent. Then

The square began to clear.

The bijou of Atlas, the moon,

Was last with its porcelain leer.