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ARTHUR RIMBAUD, GUN RUNNER

Kenneth Pobo

Poetry was something to play with
like Paul’s prick. Scandal
told me to skedaddle, stuff

France in a basement
and lock the door. Sun on
water, I’m just another

mug on a ship—there’s only
forward motion,
never settling,

my name like something
I outgrew. The sea pulls
each syllable of my poems

into a whale’s belly. Home,
a sound of waves
thinly moving away. I need

no address cage. Let
my poems call and call.
I hear only gulls.