Secondhand Scent

I press your palm,

inhale a brand new head note.

Dry-down does not alter its mellow ego. 

It smokes grassy through skin,

overrides all previous compounds:  memories,

migraines, cheekbones, jawbones.

Bouquet lingers like the last days of summer.

I hone it, catch it in a Mason jar,

screw the lid on tight; save it for when

I need odorous bliss, an oracle

that calms all sorts of butterflies,
claustrophobia, and scars. 

tk/January 2015

Lovely evocative read by R.A.D. ...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group

Carry On

Another country's dampness tumbles to the floor;
towels in a heap; fleece holds the scent of you.

A kind of violence removing
fresh-crumpled museum passes, sea glass,

the stone saved from the road where the wood pigeon startled.
(Still pokes its head now and then from under my socks.)

A shame to store it undefined with other bags;
after it crossed the border, witnessed so much buzz.

I will keep it unzipped, ravenous for another;
your original score pocketed in the top.


tk/January 2015


Back to normal in R.A.D.'s black and white world...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group