A version of a poem by Rimbaud

Fists bunched in pockets, I launched myself,
great-coat flapping like heavenly wings.
I set off to meet the sky, to marry poetry,
or whatever loves dropped crumbs along my path.

That hole in my trousers gaped like a mouth.
Blackberries swung fat rhymes through the hedge
solely for me to pluck and shine and swallow,
as if I’d nick stars from under night’s nose.

Those fine September evenings I perched on stones
while shadows speckled dew across my brow,
chilly as one last trickle from the vine.

I tugged my shoelaces
tighter than strings on a lyre,
a muddy foot close to my heart.