Scent
The one last probable great imponderability
That calls you back into my life
Scent
That I can pick off the pages, or dissolve
From another young woman’s photograph
Years have passed
Way beyond absolution
Arches of roses collapsed
Bicycle of joys trundled
Certain as the stones
Laid out before
We, as all others
Caught by institution
Scent
Homogeneous in a few lines of text
That neither you nor I wrote
Scent
Worthy of being named the great imponderable
That rolls you back into my life