The Islands of Africa

to Rimbaud Two pages to a grape fable dangles the swan of samite blood shaping sand from thistle covered fog Over sacred lakes of fever (polished mouths of the vegetable frog rolling to my iron venus) I drop the chiseled pear Standing in smoke filled valleys (great domains of wingless flight and the angel’s fleshy gun) I stamp the houses of withering wax Bells of siren-teeth (singing to our tomb refusal’s last becoming) await the approach of the incendiary children lighting the moon-shaped beast Every twisted river pulls down my torn-out hair to ratless columns by the pyramid’s ghost (watered basin of the temple stink) and all the mud clocks in haste draw their mermaid-feather swords (wrapped by Dust) to nail them into the tears of the sea-gull child The winter web minute flutters beneath the spider’s goblet and the whores of all the fathers bleed for my delight