Les fleurs du mal, 37–38

The glov’d hand caresses —

And at midnight some foul thing awakens,

— Silent, as all monsters are, no growls, no hisses

— Not even the whimper of satisfaction

At seeing the prey approach —

Hidden by the thrushes, hidden by the

Shadows of a wet moon.

The glov’d hand caresses —

And the splash of the water as the horses

Muddy the stream colors the afternoon

In Wordsworth’s exotica. Sweet, silent, slow

It slithers. ‘Are you dressed yet for

Dinner?’ It asks… the bony arms hidden in

The sleeves of its macintosh.

The glov’d hand caresses —

As the rain’s own little hands pat at the window.

— ‘Too hot!’ she would complain, much later,

Lying down by the pool as it slithers,

Slowly still, silent, polite.

Blue-eyed it watches, noiseless, patient

While indoors the mold claims its erstwhile dominion.

Annouchka is troubled in her sleep —

Some ghost from the old country had been visiting

Her in the evenings. À peine sa bougie éteinte

It announces its arrival. Superstitious

She has asked for a séance, her object

Peace.

But the solstice is near, Annouchka is told.

And as it were, no English magick is potent enough

To rid her her demons.

‘It is not magick I seek,’ she protests

To an empty room,

— the light that filters through the

Curtains falls deaf on her husband’s rabid face: lip,

Eye, brow, he was not her ghost — not yet, at least,

The incunabulus that has been taunting her, and

What do the cards know that she doesn’t?