Because I'll never know you, and because
I'll never set out on some pilgrimage
to find you, I must conjure up your fizz
of smells from my own kitchen bricolage.
The week-old wine's your breath when you get back
from sessions aimed towards a new LP;
the iced-in-grease pan's something like the stark,
strange musk of your axilla, end of day;
the stacked-up spice shelf with its sickly mix
of ginger, garlic, chilli, honey, chives
's the perfume at your neck blurred with your back's
slippery nadir; your cast-off gloves
smell like the bust-up drawer with its old crumbs;
the butter-grubby whisk's the candied punge
of each breast's underside; your salted limbs
are in the worktop's grain, the cupboard's hinge;
the box of vegetables, some going soft,
may be your private parts - but I should stop,
or end up with my head beneath the tap,
or in the bin. Enough of this downdraft.
