Rimbaud, the Seer, Speaks
Somewhere among the beds and sheets of dreams
Untroubled sexes sleep. They do not yearn
For likeness only, nor for love that seems
To need its opposite to make it burn.
These drowsy flares are burning in slow,
Unspoken prophecies the future wants.
Such mornings need new happiness to flow
Where loneliness alone in us now taunts
With its simplicity of lack. A throb
Of wider, longer, harsher flesh, a thrill
Of tighter, hungry, softer forge will sob
In ever growing holiness and spill.
Superscripts of exponential desire
Are promised in this unawakened fire.