by Roger Fanning

    Baudelaire， dead broke， nonetheless allowed himself

    two hours for his morning ablutions.

    （Warm water can be a narcotic too.）

    His razor scraping whiskers cleanly off

    sounded like a file rassrasping

    against prison bars. Never did this man

    gulp 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

    intruded softly the spiel of a fishmonger

    as well as the stench. Many， many vendors still

    singsong their wares， as a sort of wishwash drizzle

    inducing human animals to mope， to yawn.

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

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

    Poetry jolts awake the lucky few. I praise

    the mirror-gazing mighty poet Baudelaire，

    my hero， a fop full of compulsions，

    a perfectionist to whom a single

    tweezered nosehair brought tears of joy.