perfume

i found it
held captive in a bottle
from paris, bought in siena
worn with flitty lungs in riomaggiore
it woke on my skin like pollen
like sea scatter

the scent of marjoram
and something beestung
sharp-angled, sun-warmed
planes of sweetness that cellar well on fingers
alter with the tide of sky
a scent of homes, times
other sounds, faces
that weren’t mine then

its currents oversaw the modes by which
we choreographed seating arrangements
all that near-touching made that risotto
the walk, the geraniums
the ocean, the final days
the drive, the decision
the fishhook wound

all the more exquisite

and i have enough to last us until the year’s point
boats us by
after that
we’ll get on with real life
perhaps.