No, nothing and no one
resembles Baudelaire,
on July the thirteenth
of 1857 wrote Flaubert.
Except for “the English fog
that seeps through everything”
and except “for the marble”
that, if made into a statue,
resists ugliness like Diana’s
stately coldness even if all
else is sordid, vulgar Hell,
but even of its filth and grime
something greater must be made
as if Medusa had a poet’s eyes.
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