This is my extrapolation of Baudelaire’s poem below.  Rather than taking the poem literally, I decided to look at it more closely.  Our words try in a confused way to approach the dream of nature, blending our own patently minuscule hopes for a vast unity with infinity, as the sinner hopes for heaven, but it is the poem itself, or any kind of art, which transports finite things like musk or prairies into the music of the spheres.  Through the tight structure of its rhyme and meter (which my poem copies), Baudelaire achieves freedom of thought.  It is fantasy alone which turns perfume into romance, or poetry into catharsis.  We are transported to a higher world through mind, and through the sounds and beats of self-abnegating technique, a seamless poem about the seams themselves emerges.