…and Rimbaud’s limb being so caught up goes be-bopping out the door into the forest through the trees – raga rag in the grass overturning picnic baskets whizzing past churchyard gates right in step it genuflects then aims and leaps over the scene over the rainbow out of the canvas into space pure space—as remote and colorless as dear arthur’s face. a face made incorporeal full of grace. sunken eyes—those cobalt treasures closed forever.
clenched fist relaxed wrist
his pipe turned in…
out in the garden the children are gathering
it’s not a whim. they are accurate immaculate,
as cruel as him.
legs can’t flail
cock can’t ball
teeth can’t bare
baby can’t crawl
rimbaud rimbaud facing the wall
cold as hail dead as a doornail