In hashish haze Baudelaire's head
roll, floats spiky knob
looking for heaven at the point
where the temple's veil tears.
His fingers prick, like Herod
Antipas, at silk cushions;
the Salome world laps in lazy
waves over his senses.
In his greening guts the needle
voice of the Baptist pushes up
and through in a delight of pain:
the drip of his heaven.