The Lateral Eclipse of Bound Sunsets


Never believing the awkward

scalpel of an invidious paraclete

or the razors of those recently

consigned to public scrutiny

could carve intaglios of flesh

deep in his paramour’s arms,

how could he have imagined

the fleet collaborations and

juxtapositions of stained youth,

such a veritable inheritance

in the swelter of the moment

during a long dusk in Tours,

postprandial espresso and

hot buttered croissants

cooling on the marble table

of a crowded hotel balcony,

only a scattering of candles

and glowing cigarette ends

and unintelligible voices

to assault the shadows,

to light the closet of the sky,

while back at the atelier

you’ve rented for the summer

an impertinent Beaujolais

breathes a heady bouquet

of charcoal and roses,

and unconsidered lives,

an inconsiderate choice

for an after dinner wine

when a beautiful mad poet,

a Rimbaud in his prime,

waits to whisper mystic

mythical verses in your ear,

while the inviolate legislature

rushes through high doors

of the burnished capitol,

demanding further restrictions

on the travel of holy spirits

and bound sunsets by the score

across international borders.