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Oh,
there he is.
Rimbaud.
Always him and his rucksack.
On the train.
I don’t know if he can handle it.
He is too much, just for one boy.
Maybe,
if he combs his hair first.
From the station, he walks straight to the forest.
To wash away
the sweat from his body and
the ashes from his hair. His clothes
soaked on the shore. He floats,
listens to the cicadas and
the ancient breath of pines,
under water’s embrace.
[water as birth
water as safety
water as strength
water as a grave]
Rimbaud floats
naked
in the river
holding flowers
to feel what Ophelia felt.
Rimbaud is going away
after lunch,
to catch up with the sun.
Goodbye little poet.
Write something nice tonight

there, in the wilderness.

Far away, you and your sack
which contains
a slice of bread,
a grape,
a drop of
holy sperm,
a washed out
wine cork.
Go back home, just to drink water from the well.
– Bonne nuit maman, bonne nuit Isabelle.
Goodnight to the wild boy of the world

who messes his hair and runs naked and immune in those woods 

to scream and change the flow.