Love Songs for Rimbaud
Rimbaud was lounging beneath a sycamore tree.
He was speaking Hungarian to the photograph
Of a prince, who had been born a princess but
Had shrugged off the inconvenience, with a furious
Flourish of nonchalant genius. “I know this captain,”
Rimbaud languidly moaned. “They dreamed of me
Sensuously. See: I have come into being.” I tried to
Be as flexible as the sepia gentleman seemed to be.
Rimbaud eyed me curiously. “How girlishly you stand,”
He said. “Such prettiness is you.” I became a crimson
Hue, an image of my own confused desires. A mistle
Thrush sang purposefully on the highest branch above.