A poem from From a Winter Notebook

As winter went on, every morning’s spoon of buckwheat honey

resembled more the taste of that isosceles at midpoint

of your weight, its smell brought sweetly back the pendulum-like pace

moving us from windowsill to floor, from floor to bed, and back

to floor, mapping haste’s measure of the room, our smell, but also

meubles, book dust, hanging smoke, an open bottle, everything

connecting now for me, as smells will do, things that don’t connect,

may not be mine in memory, like childhood’s corridors, cats,

other’s bodies, and maybe other minds. All this from the spoon:

sweet, grassy in my nose, cloying almost, bitter on the tongue.

Yet, as clear as memory of pace, of smell, of movement made—

strange: where is the sound of us as we moved with one another?

Source: PoetryNow (2019)