The coffee smell of scrubbing pots
The carbonated pop of falling snow
The desiccated pepper like a mummified mouse
The chlorine scent after the broccoli’s been mown
The live coals of New York as seen from the air
The fresh semen smell off the stone-ground tortillas
The motel taste in your mouth the morning after
Is that a dead blackbird or a charred piece of wood?
The hunting shark shadow of a helicopter above
The craving for cake which sounds like your name
The weight of all that light on the tops of the trees
The enormous horned head of the moon on the ridge
The way you hate the way you look in the photos I take
and how I feel the same (photos of me, taken by you)
and how it makes one wonder
what numbers we become inside any given pair
and who gets to be the aftertaste
while the other seeps out with the angel’s share
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