I rustle Rimbaud
delicately as pubic hair;
scratching the penis of hell
through his eyes. I am seasonless
as the death of a
flower lingering above a vase;
small, so small
among the vase’s water.
There are no thorns,
everything is flat and hollow,
bare to the womb walls—
there is no milk,
but there are damp lips and tongues,
small roses, narrow roads,
flat and angleless—
the stupor of drunk and gab,
there is the sound of house-slippers,
the reds of erections and roses.
I lay with Rimbaud under a canopy.
I fall in love with the frailty of apple trees.
Published in Slipstream, August 2000