Synesthesia
Verlaine spun out his poetry like silk
From spider abdomens, but it had hues
Of melody, it sounds the touch of milk,
And all came also from the fragrant blues
Of Rimbaud’s irises and, more, from deep
Within the boy’s manly soul which sang
In tones of yellow, orange, and the steep
Of red rock canyons tasting of the tang
Of Ardennais patois. When later he
Was forced to bear a life without his friend,
Paul found a staleness, a sagacity
That smells of priestly wafers, reverend.
..Rimbaud confused Verlaine—his senses, heart,
….His lines—and stirred hermaphroditic art.