by Jeffrey Park
Running low on all fours
you follow the scent
moss clogging your nostrils like
mealy cotton wool
over fallen trees
over big stones
splash through the stream, find
the place of exit
the scent heads up and up
onto a high cliff, into
a high lonely meadow
running ahead in the light
slowing now
teasing
slightly stronger but a breath of air
and it’ll be gone.
But now…
Tackle it, pin it
down on the pine needles
I have you now you naughty thing
I’ll take a deep sniff and hold
you tight
in the labyrinthine twists
of my nasal passages
odor – fragrance – stink
tastes
like a memory.
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