scent is a language

written to the wrong score,

for the wrong organ.

the field is a lit stage

and sweet basil whips

fifty lashes to the conductor’s

face. I inhale whole chapters

of your story

despite the sting.

in the final act

my knife skips a beat.

blood spitting out the stanza,

my story becomes your story.

a papillon dances for the crowd,

figure-eights my forehead

intoxicated, pages deep now,

desperate to know

how it all ends.