a brown-feathered sparrow, brown like your hair
singing in your cabinet
heaven knows how it got there --
i don't know, i was reading voltaire
as it jumps around with a sense of entitlement,
i was bewitched by the spell of the so-called enlightenment
when all the enlightenment we really need
is how did a sparrow,
a brown-feathered sparrow, brown like your hair
end up in your dusty cabinet?

how soft are magnolia petals on my lips,
how sweet is their perfume, their taste,
i would break the bottle of its perfume
once, twice, a thousand times
the precious oil on your feet --
like magnolias i suppose,
white and fragrant, flower-sweet
and dry them with my hair...
i sighed a sigh only mary herself could hear
as i put magnolia petals to my lips,
and sadly blushed behind my hair
(the hair i'll never dry them with.)

In her dark eyes thou canst see thine own mortality
And with her white arm in some imperiously indolent gesture,
Long fingers carelessly pointing -- rosemary, rosary,
Rose petals rotting on a Sunday -- Baudelaire would like her,
With her nightshade beauty and red lips in a frown.

"Fier et nonpareil," like some rue-flowering queen
And not even the dark red of the faded rose
Resembles the color of her voice, a color which can't be seen
Morbid and beautiful and indolently morose
Et son visage serait celui de Baudelaire ***** rêves...