A word is a memory of talcum dust,
A wind bestirring a creeper’s moon,
A fragrance remembered of flowers
A love imagined, a self-love passing.
Strike the word to bring them back.

Smell is in a word white of memory
A nose ‘s way of remembering a joy
A strip of old sky smelling jasmines,
A blouse’s back spreading it all out.
Strike the word to bring them back.

Sound is in a word touching crackle
Of a dry firewood in pre-dawn fires
A fire ‘s tongues licking a darkness,
A hot bathwater in copper cauldron
Its bottom black like moonless sky.
Strike the word to bring them back.

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