I see your mouth quirk and can read,
As in a comic strip, the thoughts
Italicizing over your head. He's writing
About Verlaine's miscarried brothers
Again! If I cease to employ them
They might stay forever encanted
In bottles in their mother's kitchen
While their brother luxuriates
In having been born, writing poems,
Going to prison, shooting Rimbaud.
When his sibs -- never more than
Two at a time -- try to haunt his sleep
Verlaine summons the Platonic Ideal
Of a waiter and calls for extra glasses
And curiously slotted spoons.
Only I invite them to walk at large
In a world nor green nor opalescent.
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