Sport 31: Spring 2003
The smell of honey
is as good a place to start as any.
The rhododendrons sweetened
in summer, ‘turning in the wind’.
The sound of leaves and the smell
were mine, as close as skin on fingers.
I once thought identity was in the recesses,
I was hopeful for the body's flaw.
Yet, it seems the impulse
is replace or cover over.
(A piece has gone,
the fluid pooling in …
a fast tide is faster than horses,
they say, faster than thought is.)
And see: the severed arm jerks and itches,
the amputee scratches.
But what is gone is no longer mine.
The sound of leaves, the smell of honey.
Like the person alone in an empty room,
who pulls the curtains open and then shut.
At one moment the world is there,
the next it's not.