To Baudelaire

The head is the body’s lair.

It may be slightly in front.

Milking these separations,

Words answer the immortal need

For intoxicating monotony. The body

Is the mind’s sieve.

Beloved grief, water drips

From a block of red ice

Onto a perfumed paradise

Lost in the obsessive embrace

Of reader and writer. Superb haloes

Hang from the heads

Of naked slaves whipping themselves.

A new world is required

To stomach the images

Floating on the headless

Torso of the old.

“I was surprised to find myself

Staring at an empty hole.

I ordered flowers.”