Improv. off excerpt from Kate Northrop's Three Women
"A longing--without clear
definition--pervades
like the smell of hay
which rising from a freshly
mowed field rises as well
from those we rode through, mist
in the vague mountains. Only scent
travels between worlds. Real things
refuse to be called back."
A grinning--without prime patterns
--glinting somewhere like hay
stacked like the backs
of semi-trucks, smelling
always like raw onions
Like the onions we dug
from the field near your house
in the vague mountains
we played, draped with mist
the mornings that tasted
like lilacs and fog, not onions
who refuse to be called back,
except by odor, and whose odor
always reminds me of you--
tasting blackberry bushes
--holding my hand in the rain,
in the woods on that long
gruelling walk from childhood
to a place where real things
are only brought about
by how well we smell them
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