"Valediction for Rimbaud."
"In hell, a pen races off, running away,
I suspect, from Verlaine's fevered scalp.
The lamp post light thickens for morphine,
eyes fall to the floor where they stare up at me.
The wine poured by the boys.
You, who can charm us for just a day, are about to leave again.
From each new corner, new opportunities glow like Bedouin
campfires.
I see you are in a hurry.
If we forget everything, we should at least
scoop out the leaves from the toxic pools.
Those poets, who hesitate, believe in an everlasting life.
But where would you look for our pen that flies,
except in those memories of hell?
Cutting now our child ties to childhood."