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The Grave of Rimbaud


by Bill Yarrow





I visited the grave of Rimbaud
It was pale blue 
like the blood of a baby penguin

Upon its headstone were designs
beautiful and mysterious
like the brain waves of deer

I touched the grave
and found it redemptive
like the law forbidding adultery

I thought I was alone
but I was in the midst of a vast crowd
hissing like poisonous snakes on fire

I had imagined the grave of Rimbaud
standing out from its field
like a single candle in a cake

The grave itself was small
attic
quiet as a king at the end of his reign

Around the grave the grass was burned
gray and stiff
like the lips of lovers who no longer kiss

I sat by the grave
and felt at home
like bigotry in the hearts of men of God

Then darkness settled over the grave
sentimentally
like a kitten on the neck of a man

I left the grave and returned
to Marseilles
aligned like a knife in Adam's apple
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