by Bruce Boston
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.