If a perfumer thinks in poetry

Then how does a whore scrape her brain

Off the tile floor 

 

Sopped in scum the viscosity 

Of back-throated spittle

Scraped from tongue 

By dirty napkin 

From center console 

 

And place it in the tank to

 

Wash it 

Dry it 

Swaddle it 

Season it 

Nurture it 

Mother it 

 

Into thinking the way 

A perfumer does in oud 

 

And

Labdanum and

Styrax and 

Rose and 

Civet

In lieu of 

Absolutes 

 

She mustn’t fear the processes 

The one 

The two 

 

Heaven is a lonely bed,

A night sweat 

Cotton impression 

Of one

In lieu 

Of two  

 

De deux

De deux

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