RIMBAUD'S READ

A blue volume
asleep on the arms
of a used bookstore
sold at noon
at an outside corner
for a quarter,dime and pennies,
you might shadow the voice
of the departing poet's
spirit to be in the hands
of a young soul
now hiding behind
a closed door
in a drawing room
circling ink dream words
on paper mache,
we hear of armies
of the night
and blasphemies
day and night
in shadows hidden
from forbidden worlds
of a war's wound
where white handkerchiefs
offer peace and relief
but we do not doubt
in any platoon
at the memory and echo
of instant death in life
to enliven or divine when belief
under the blood moon crosses
over Rimbaud's prayer wheels
which turn on attic windows
concealing the snow,
we imagine your exiled time
from a Paris and Morocco book
when embarrassing smiles
questions your sacrificial look
passing liquors and hashish
by mirrors as you despair
is answered by more fine critics
of your literary companions
Villon ,Verlaine and Reverdy
translated by even these hands
moving on the sacrosanct lines
on your created horizon
as earth, sun, fire, stars,isles
are above this writer's bench
from French and African leafs
taken out by fresh desires
in soul,spirit, body
from a metamorporphosis
of your own love triangles
with its own griefs.