What is that smell?
(Which of the trillion scents that your piriform cortex might decode in your lifetime
Is it
that is going to finally stop you from dismissing the yearnings of your soul?)
Is it the sea air that holds the molecule of your deliverance?
Or is it the spice in some simmering stew
Far far away in another time
That exists outside the pale of your fear?
The poet is throwing his knife into a board
Right into the heart
Of the outline of a man drawn on the board.
Every time he throws the knife
It turns once in the air and straightens
Before embedding itself in the seasoned wood.He isn't angry.
He is writing a poem.
He is aiming right for the heart.
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