RIMBAUD'S LAST NOVEMBER

Days cannot dissolve
your venturesome words
by the Seine
or from Morocco and Tangiers
in liquid whirlpools of rain
on silent funereal avalanches
with fears of lost map
abandoned in the mesh
near skeleton scalps
cleft by shadows
in the next day sun
covering over the Alps
I am reading a text
of your quoted quatrains
with my uncle
by goats
in the the white mountain
range of Grenoble
as feeding birds
discard flesh
by the fragility of branches.