I smell death here:
sweetness not
unpleasant
as I remember when young
I found it offended
and scared me:
the smell of gray whiskers
in a dirty Remington
or soiled silk.
Now I hear after shave,
the rustle of perfume.

Soil scent
it was
dust motes,
webs and time,
nicotine and Lux.

A baby’s skin
(just as late
as my mother’s putrid carcass)
smells
alive.

The body itself
emanates--
not the cabbage or the soap.
Time perfumes.

Does one not acquire a palate
educated for death
as for garlic,
red wine,
and the bleus?

I cup my hand
to my chin
to ponder the question,
I smell it.

Poetry Magazine