Do you remember how the rocket went on

And on, at night, exploding finally

In an ovation of resplendent forms—

Ovation on ovation of large blue men

In pantaloons of fire and of women hatched,

Like molten citizens of the vacuum?

Do you remember the children there like wicks,

That constantly sparkled their small gold? The town

Had crowded into the rocket and touched the fuse.

That night, Liadoff, a long time after his death,

At a piano in a cloud sat practicing,

On a black piano practiced epi-tones.

Do you remember what the townsmen said,

As they fell down, as they heard Liadoff’s cloud

And its tragical, its haunted arpeggios?

And is it true that what they said, as they fell,

Was repeated by Liadoff in a narration

Of incredible colors ex, ex and ex and out?

The feeling of Liadoff was changed. It is

The instant of the change that was the poem,

When the cloud pressed suddenly the whole return

From thought, like a violent pulse in the cloud itself,

As if Liadoff no longer remained a ghost

And, being straw, turned green, lived backward, shared

The fantastic fortune of fantastic blood,

Until his body smothered him, until

His being felt the need of soaring, the need

Of air … But then that cloud, that piano placed

Just where it was, oh beau caboose … It was part

Of the instant to perceive, after the shock,

That the rocket was only an inferior cloud.

There was no difference between the town

And him. Both wanted the same thing. Both sought

His epi-tones, the colors of the ear,

The sounds that soon become a voluble speech—

Voluble but archaic and hard to hear.