Searching for Scent
by Jeanne P. Donovan
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The trace is
growing into fetor
the flint that
stained your hand
with ash-burns drifts
the room wears you
as a drape
the cat sniffs in circles
searching for you
in your scent
his whiskers spring
over the dress of the bed
the skirt of the recliner
he abandons the
hunt in favor
of crusted provisions
dried out from
the day before
and I will do
the same.
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