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| (painting by Jill Moon) |
puts me in meditation
as the fresh pillows are tossed
on to the bed spread,
Scented stitches among the madras flowers,
trees I climbed, the smell of my mother's hair
when she kissed me good night,
Many long moments staring at the moon
holding a stone you gave me and wrapped my hand around,
the gardens behind our apartment, mire and fertilizer
sharp to the nostril,
the smell of your hair against the
pillows now three days from the wash
and full of our odors
which bless the currents
we created as we come and go
through rooms alive with
scents of wet paint and spices,
The room now reeks of bourbon
because I played my harmonica
after too many cocktails,
Your breath on my neck
as you looked down as I typed
another poem about nothing
in particular
and everything I could
disguise my best memory with,
I write about nothing
I said
and you snorted
c'mon, tell me
what all this means
I took a deep breath through
my nose,
each nostril flaring
like the pants we used to wear,
I am saying I love
the smell of the bedroom
after
we've done it all
for the night,
and every sheet and pillow casing
is signed with
the staggering funk
that are ours
til the end
of time.