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TasteI taste asphalt every time I swallow.It is the flavor of this stationIn my life while I wait between trains.Sometimes I dream about sweet hay and honeysucklebut then I remember the nettles, the sting of the honey bee,and I look around at the city.There are lights so high here they have forgotten the roads that twist below them.There are windows so high here you can look out eye level with God
ScentRancid smoke woven into his sweater the same coloras the tiles of that old kitchen floor. That was the worst ideaany designer ever had, the way the brown and the green coiledlike so many retrograde maggots.Hardly appetizingWe don't eat in that kitchen anymore. Burned to the ground along withall those old photosand the guitar his grandfather bought him as a kidfrom an old pawn shop that smelled,I imagine,just like his sweater.He's come to smell a lot worse since the fire, as if he can't get the smokeOut of his clothes and hair--I'd blame it on the cigarettes, but I've never minded the poisonous smell of tobacco.There is something much more sinister about thatghostly aroma that hovers around him, clouding him.Sometimes I smell it strongest at night when he isstill awake, watching the silent television so it won't wake me up,his old sweater hung over the chair we took out of the neighbor's heap.So I know it's not the sweater. It must beHis skin--Perhaps.His bones.He
WinterThis morning was breathing through the nose, so softly I could hardly hear. I woke up gently, in the cold,and saw spider breath on the glass. It had come in like sleep--slowly but ceaselessly, there before I am aware