Get lost. Unlearn the way back.
Supplant thoughts by feelings.
Some scents need you
to be more vulnerable,
more gone, wanting
their music more.
Some scents are siren songs.

They call at night from the labyrinth,
their red lips in a perpetual opening.
They seem to be made of pure silk,
each of them a perfect tangle
of Ariadne’s thread, circling
a truth. Listen to them.
Go inward to find the way out.

It’s simple and clear like perfume.
It’s an open heart in the open air,
freshly cut, chanting,
I am lost.
I am lost.

 


From “Little Eden”

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