For Rembrandt, love of my life.

Rimbaud,
were you next door
with Verlaine
or in a bar
or in a church
when the tables
were turned by
an invisible hand
against us
my heart was snatched
from our star
& stuffed down
a chimney stack
full of eyes &
knock knocking
on a door & a cry
as a pistol shot
rang out in sepia
do you believe
in women made of paper
folded into dancers
for suit-clad spiders
by doses of poison
if so hold this song
between your fingers
say a prayer
or just curse science
or the shadows
of a trashed childhood
any in memoriam
will do right now
when I still love you.