after Arthur Rimbaud
 
It doesn’t mean a thing:
the pyramid eye
or the constellations,
not night’s scattered verse.

Smoking incense,
the bride’s dress,
the taste of dark wine—
it doesn’t mean a thing.

Neither does beautiful Paris:
the elegant avenues,
the asphyxiating decay,
the distant nausea.

Only your soft pure face
and the warm bed of home.