In the city’s forest, each street’s a sacred grove
Whose groans commingle traffic noise and grief
Symbolic temples crammed beyond belief
That gaze upon us with electric love.
Long echoes mingle and obscure our sight
And merge in shadows infinite and deep
We walk among them in a waking sleep
A swirl of sounds-colors-smells chat at night.
Smells cool as baby flesh, sweet as oboe sound
As green as prairies under summer skies
And some, like us, stabbed with a sacred wound,
Corrupt and decadent infinities,
LIke musc and vinyl and exquisite ryes
That make our thoughts and senses more profound.
(- after Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal, 103)
In the City I photograph, these correspondences haunt my sight.
Here is a gallery of correspondences that have whispered back to me (mostly in 2014)