Boy smell

is a ten cent coin

preserved in kauri gum. 
Metallic,

like a drop of

blood on your tongue.
Organic,

like the give of

rotten conifer bark underfoot.
Sweat,

like bush honey,

oozing from his pores.
Boy smell

is a bare chest

splayed across your bottom sheet

the morning after 
his last shower.
An armpit-shadow

on your pillow,

fine hair laced

with microfibre.

Hot like a spurt of sparks

when rust meets an angle grinder.
Boy smell

is a pheromonic frequency.

A throbbing
bass string. A Syrah-

stained finger, carving

stale soundwaves. 
It’s condensation dribble,

‘how’s the head?’,

and

‘I’ll just crack a window’
as firework-phosphorus

and morning afterglow

purls in your throat.
Boy smell

is a blue poppy,

blooming from the crest

of yesterday’s sweats;
with yellow stamen

crusted in pollen,

and green bulb

ripe to milk.
Boy smell

is an opium cloud

lulling you back to his den
where lips purse

about the end of a pipe,

and long – only –
to feel him

deep in your lungs

again.