The scent is the thing

redolent of absolute confusion
those spring days thick with parrots
the future all hands

and no face

it was the only thing that provided

comfort, then
I pressed a pain, like

marzipan, into a shape
I consulted

The Classical Order,

found it

unconciliatory and phallic
but I rode

in the volkswagen rabbit

and though I wanted to stay

in my corner of the Black Boar

tavern with its
tart strange beer and lecherous

hands on my waist,
it contracted behind me

until tiny, and distant as a

relative planet.
the Black Boar is closed now or

rather called some other name

which inspires no

commemoration.
I don’t live in the parrot

neighborhood anymore

and when, on Easter, Jesus slouches

harried down the street

I cannot see him.
My past plans:

for Aquarossa, a tiny

book
plans to find the right

song and the perfect

almond perfume
they hang humble

and bedraggled

like flowers surprised

by thirst
on a bough that sags a bit now

toward the ground