Spring Wind From the South

If age makes me blank and hum of piss
Remember that I now say this:
This inky apple blossom scent—
That perfumers from here to Ghent
Have tried and failed to reinvent
(With its aftertaste of a first kiss),
That every spring wind chases down
Our shirts and up our legs, and leaves

Our memories in fading tatters
Of home and work and other matters,
And finds all thoughts of stillness bound
Outside of time with strands of grief—
Only draws my mouth from your mouth
To close our distance, tending south.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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