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The Carcass
Brian Dickson


Baudelaire, your poem is writhing
this afternoon, the dog in bed with me, 
 
bloat of worms, maggots, flies, 
a whir in the air. 
 
On the other side, your lover 
easing onto the mattress,
 
daydreaming of the walk. 
Underneath the bed, a kitten found 
 
in an oak tree with locusts’ blaring. 
To hear its meow, the zzzzz of insects, 
 
low crinkle of nightcrawlers, larvae
shimmering in my ear–what
 
would you say on a stroll
to this room? 
 
Speak of devotion, let the soil
and gods know.
Picture
Photo by Ron Szlata
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