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Verlaine In The Lake

Verlaine is illuminatingly a sinking limb
It is too late to abandon Paris, for him
He has wings like the figure of a figure; he
cannot fly: can barely sigh / complain

Look up Verlaine, the lake is not blue, its
useless to you! Write that dream
You are in an orchard: a bird hypnotized by
the colours of the fruit trees. Verlaine

following an upstart lorikeet called Rimbaud
(rainbow, rhyme beau) who always
tries to shake him off. Its all very Death in
Castlemaine, Scenes from Mildura. Is

the lake a lake, the bird a bird, or but a fake
shadow, a half-thing? Did the poet
go down too slowly to the spring, too late?
His face has gone orange in the blue

Michael Farrell

Blackbox Manifold

Summer 2018

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