Postcard to Baudelaire

It's still the same, Charles.

Every day dislimned, the heart clicking

erratically-the sound of amateurs

playing billiards. How are you enjoying

the high privileges

of the dead? The double

triple and more turns

of the dark, the delicious

please of quietude? No one,

no thing is different: the oblati swarm,

the poor are formed into lines

leading poorer ... There's one good thing,

Charles: the few beautiful verses

granted you by God

sing. Even though you're deaf

I want you to know

they sing! You should know that,

Charles, it's still the same.