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.