For Baudelaire
In the woods you found a carcass with maggots in its chest,
with waterfalls in its eyes, with the buzz of life still
hovering around its skull, and in commemoration, you grabbed
your sweetheart’s hand, with your left, and on your right, you
snatched the clasped hand of the world and said: look here, how
we build skyscrapers in the cavity of death’s groin, how we
paint lilacs on its ribs. We will drive motor cars over its
bones and laugh in the waning perfume of midnight, and, my love,
I will write you a poem, a tribute to your beautiful decay,
to your rotting thighs, to the death you will birth with your sex
because, truly, this is beauty—this festering carcass in the woods,
this putrid nag, truth. And in it, you will live forever.

