ET IN ARCADIA EGO

Dreamt again of candlelit dinner with Rimbaud. We ate dust.

(Dust which is the crystal-fine ruin of everything,
even Rimbauds)

Meanwhile, Oneiroi with the heads of dogs
sat at the kitchen table, manipulating
the room, the light, the swell
of black-and-white checkered floor.

Rimbaud sulked in his chair, arms
crossed and a shadow over his brow.
Still mad that he had to die after all.
It's some game--life,death, good and
bad dreams in the middle.

Even as a ghost, Rimbaud's sleeves are
too long. He scowls as I handle my silverware
with what must seem like an aggravating deftness.
(Naturally, his poet-phantom hands pass
through everything)

Another defiance from unknowing, waking life.
How rude we are to barge in
on this other realm,
unannounced and ostentatious
with our show of blood
rising to skin,
flushed with
living color.
It's some game.

What's so great about bones? He grumbled. You didn't even earn them.

Somewhere off, the dogs howled
an Appalachian folksong.