ement Guitar

　　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.