The Time That’s Stretched
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The time that’s stretched between Verlaine and us Has painted in a scumble on his scenes With Arthur. It’s as if some sort of pus Has been brushed over them like filthy jeans Encrusted with the grime of tears. A scrim Obscures our view of these two lovers. Rage Is modulated to some lines by him And him. Their pain is scratchings on a page Of mellow paper. Never mind bizarre Attempts to capture agony with pen. What’s left is melodrama made with tar On fire, smouldering without oxygen. ..We hear this as if dulled by vesper bell. …..For them it was a heaven much like hell. |