Terrell Jamal Terry
THE SMELL (IS NOT) FORGOTTEN
Spices from lyrical rags
paint big colors. Better borrow
myself—masculine flowers
& navy sky-water.
Woebegone blister in season.
However, it's directly
under sun—amnesia,
random assumption,
the peacefulness
of certain uncertainty, small pleasures
semi-existing. Interval:
it has not rained in months.
I enter the trail & find a treehouse
overrun with caterpillars.
I ease into the twirl
as cyclists’ tread the asphalt track.
No doubt my mind should shift
to a destiny demanded,
the middle of rightness,
silver-blue infectious & beautifully blind.
***
from The Saint Ann’s Review, Summer 2015