Grief distracts you
like a grocery cart
dragging one rear wheel.
You’ve forgotten
the spell of the senses.
But one whiff of a dark
purple hyacinth
forces you to forget
all of winter’s fury,
or the long wail of a lost child
crying uncontrollably
focuses your attention
like a black hearse passing,
or the touch of a tongue-tip
twirling around a lover’s nipple
returns you to this evanescent
body of whispers,
where every caress
celebrating the flesh
leaves a trail of tingling.