by Alex Gallo-Brown
after Thoreau
A breeze wafts through the window,
slowly spelling the afternoon heat.
With it comes the odor of seawater,
preserved in a pair of swimming shorts
hanging on the balcony rail.
Little by little, the room fills
with this fragrance,
a musky, familiar scent,
almost human, almost animal,
certainly wild.
It is a smell not of sex,
although it does conjure it,
the kind which may occur outside
of love, though not necessarily
outside of like.
I sip quietly at this stink
while the breeze exhausts itself
and the heat returns,
listening to the sea
invisible beyond the window
thud against the surf.
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