I saw Rimbaud roped to a bed
and the Paterprotagonist roping him down hard,
and his pajamas, letting him go, they roared and
his smallest innocent bones came loose with doctors
blowing on that broken bassoon,
the glasses shattered, and the blinds, and the symbols
then to each according to his symptom
they gave his dose, his eyes, his Lenten discipline.
It was March in leap year and I saw
the goat choking on a piece of rock.
Big black bird, scapegoat exploiting his enclosure, and he sat there
the responsibility and blame to the telephones,
to the old ways of the judges
and their children. I saw Rimbaud spitting
into a basket of eyes well tempered
and wholesome as needles. I saw him “I do not
repent.” I am composed, I am
the scribe, the ox
who has not owned a thing. I am composed.