Rimbaud

Rimbaud,
boy cum seer—of what?
Beauty’s bitchiness? Humor’s pregnancy?

We were all seventeen once.

So quit? Blow up
and out
and offer
your neck to drool
or a noose
on an expedition to contentment: revel.

In what?

On a boat
lit-up
sobbing sick with laughter
and money in your pocket
and guts all hazy
from knowing
all youths are seers.

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