mistranslating rimbaud

Mistranslating Rimbaud
on the Northern Line
in the back alleyway cobbled death streets of Pere Lachaise
along the swaying stuttering riverbanks
wine sodden
and terrible

sir, when it is cold in the desert
when, in the dripping abattoirs,
the sometime angels are with you…
nature will deflower
all arbitrary and huge acts
the precious, cornered, and delicious

This, with too much sunshine for November,
clutching coffee cups which make a mockery of scale

This an impulse which can be taken home
to the grey building, Lemsip streets
to line the herbal tea, double duvet winter
and make it through till spring