Current Issue               Submissions               Round Table





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.

      — Steve Harris