Towards dawn on a hot
summer night
In 1898, Paul Verlaine’s
four brothers
Drifted one by one into a
dream
Belonging to
Celeleste-Marie Duplaix.
(Until they arrived it had
featured
Some sort of animal,
possibly a goat.)
She knew them at once and
pitied
Their dusty existence. (Lacking
ambition,
They had not been born
Their mother
Kept them in preservative
spirits
As a talking piece in her
parlor)
Loading their bottles into
a pram
She took them to the Opera
Hoping they’d enjoy the
change.
The cold men at the Opera
door.
Care not a whit that you
might
Be visiting them in a
dream or that
Your charitable spirit has
made you
Take unborn children to
see things
More lively than credenzas
and side tables.
Celeste-Marie was naked;
the fetuses
Searched themselves but
found not a sou.
Who knows how things might
have ended
If Verlaine and I had not
been there?
Verlaine had been dead for
two years
And was, anyway, stony
broke.
By a happy chance, with
the luck
That eludes me outside of
dreams,
My right hand clutched rubies
And my left held seven
tickets.
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