The Scent In The Morning by B.T. Joy

In every city you’ve visited along the way  
a different scent lay down like pine-trees lay 
their heavy scent in rain. 
     You ask me why 
I’m obsessed by writing; 
and this is the reason: 
     I am a perfumer 
trying hard with all my life 
to capture one good scent.
     I have smelled the backstreets of Bangkok
and the ozone of the air round Salzburg. 
     I’ve smelled the butterscotch 
of the redwood glades that divot 
California with their shadow of green  
     and I’ve breathed the stillness 
burning coldly on the peaks of Africa.
     In an earlier life than this 
you told me the round of birth and rebirth 
would come to anything 
only when I wrote 
one good poem
     and I am still trying. 
     These are not poems 
but notations of the times 
my tuning-fork bones trembled and sang 
as water does when thunder’s near. 
In every city I’ve visited  
I sensed your name; subtle and subliminal 
like a waft of something 
known briefly in childhood
     In a world of such theatre smoke; 
in the wet-paint world of fragrances like these
who has the right to apathy? 
     It’s already too late 
for ingratitude. 
     The blessing 
has already arrived. 
     And God? 
She is the body you loved, shortly, on the road,  
that rolled out of bed 
hours before you woke. 
is the heat 
and, in the sheets, the scent she left 
like the hint of pine-trees we discern 
behind the immensity of rain.

Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

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