by Roger Fanning

    Baudelaire， dead broke， nonetheless allowed himself

    two hours for his morning ablutions.

    （Warm water can be a narcotic¹ too.）

    His razor scraping whiskers cleanly off

    sounded like a file rassrasping

    against prison bars. Never did this man

    gulp² a cup of coffee， bolt out the door

    with a blob of shaving cream on one ear，

    and go to a job. He composed himself.

    Dead broke， he explored （in prose） six waterdrops

    that quake in a corner of Delacroix's painting

    Dante and Virgil！ Meanwhile， through his window

    intruded³ softly the spiel of a fishmonger

    as well as the stench. Many， many vendors⁴ still

    singsong their wares⁵， as a sort of wishwash drizzle⁶

    inducing human animals to mope， to yawn.

    We all get bored： between mainstream⁷ culture （buy things）

    and nature （in this case， rain）， people tend to snooze.

    Poetry jolts⁸ awake the lucky few. I praise

    the mirror-gazing mighty⁹ poet Baudelaire，

    my hero， a fop full of compulsions，

    a perfectionist to whom a single

    tweezered nosehair brought tears of joy.