The poet had a plan. He pulled the bullet out of his pocket
and told her about Arthur Rimbaud and the day Verlaine
shot him in the hand.
The bullet that floated through the basement
of the Brussels police station and made its way
to his mailbox on a warm afternoon
in an envelope with a letter about the legend of people
putting the bullet under their tongue and getting a glimpse
of the future.
The girl decided to give it a try and popped it in her mouth.
She tongued the bullet and tasted Rimbaud's left wrist. All she saw
and next door, a damn good universe. She watched everybody
parting to reveal the poet with perpetual nervousness writing
on a receipt
"No one will notice we're gone. Let's go."
|Copyright © 1999-2017 Juked|