Correspondences (Baudelaire)

Once I cut my finger on a growing fish's jade scales

It bled in the hibiscus tea we shared, in the belladonna

making the mystic skylights revolve above us. I thought

the dream fabric would braid your hair like seaweed,

and the mall's footlights (which I still wake up hanging

from, my second face lamplit as a geisha's corpse)

would transform you: strolling with an orchid head,

with Magritte lips and your moonlight musk. A cotillion

of myrrh hookahs tied to one another, I would think:

not the woman of the dollar, hacking in aether

filled with their mixtapes I can only snip in half,

settling on new topographies, always chillier with lunar

supermpositions, always ground in sharper crystals.