FROM THE OLFACTORY.

Licensed for pleasure
and versed in tradition
          in hendecasyllabic heaven
          he straddled the wall, inhaled
                     on one side fruits in their season
                     on the other burning flesh.

Swamped by irritants
air-borne and scoped
          he defended a weakened immune
          system, set about mopping up
                     incontinent emotions, secured
                     HQ in the lachrymal ducts.

Our creatures clover
and love long summer
          diesel scent clear than enough
          for jagged senses like in a river
                     silence in grass and in black
                     glare nerves our twisted words.

Versed in tradition
and licensed for pleasure
          she decants an entire eclogue
          quaffs a new wine, her old skin
                     vibrant with unease. December
                     hunkers down in its dank room.