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10 Rimbaud’s Ears Throughout life, the ears continue to grow, taking in The hammer and tongs of manual typewriting, the clunk Of a barbell-like telephone receiver, thwack Of a suction-cupped arrow relinquishing a Body part. Then someone’s pressing a shirt, and there’s A gasp of steam, proud as the zeitgeist, then some untranscribed Garboesque sounds, then a song repeating “Carmella te quiero” To the point of dizzy nonsense, then a warm night with crickets Rounding the same tight corner faster, faster, slower, slower, but The road doesn’t end yet. Then the crisp groan Of amortized snow as we walk to a room full of our friend Felicia, her throat lifted and her incongruous arms pulsing With a song too stubborn to reproduce. Along the railroad tracks, One of the ears’ favorite hangouts, There’s the huge harmless clash Of two boxcars, which the air afterward tries to Take back. And, most enlightening Of all, an owl, whose hoots seem to echo Rimbaud, “Je est un autre.” ...

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