by Jedediah Purdy
I don't know your smell.
the heavy, sharp heat
of turned compost steaming in cool morning air;
the nervous, sweet oat breath
that plays around a percheron's dry nostrils;
the red-clay mud that mountain women eat in pregnancy,
its iron washed clean and pliant,
a mineral pudding before the skin has set;
the aimless, prodigal fermentation
of fallen cooking apples in October.
Scents of living's self-desire,
invasive, delicious, emergent.
©1997 Cellar Door
last modified 1/20/97