A fifth of me is gone, walked out.
Smell, the most powerful
yet subtle sense of all.
Whalloping stink or tiniest perfume
don´t word stir, stir anything.
Washing flung across the house
is sweat wet but absent.
Tomato leaves don´t tango my tastebuds.
Your body, your face, your mouth,
hold their warmth and texture
but don´t carry you,
with triple thrill, to my brain.
Eating is the bare preserve
of tongue with its restricting palate.
I provoke nasal work out.
Vacum up rose with my nose.
Slice onion, sniff catfood,
there´s no response.
Only a sense of what I knew.
The absence of a lifetime friend,
that gave me colour, warning
of bad foods, fumbled farts,
of who not to fuck.
The sharpest and keenest gift,
made me chocolate tender,
radared for rotten breath,
or the lust of orange cardamon.
Tea is for the scent addict.
Its easel of spices,
bound to a cup,
is nothing to me now.
Healing will take striking
nasal engines back to work.
I must wait.
23/9/07