smell is recursive, returning,
surer than this moment,
looping through old landscapes,
leaving me crazed with loss;
fragments of past join, rickety
as children’s blocks teetering,
built of a moment;
gone like smoke in a gale.
Today I passed a bakery in a cold rain;
the warm-bread-smell spilling from the vents took me
in one long-spanning step
to that wet grey day inside a warm room
when I first laid my head
on your belly and heard your body open
to me, working its everyday tasks,
while I drowned in your fragrance,
distant now, leaving me
leaning against a brick wall, groping;
like slow-motion swimming
down and down in the dark.
David Kann is a refugee from academic administration, having returned from an ill-advised walkabout to teaching, writing, and avoiding any and every committee assignment. His chapbook, The Language of the Farm, recently won the Five Oaks Press chapbook award.