Attrition

Today the city spreads an unmistakable fragrance of lemon. Rain, yellow or blue, but it tastes of leaf, stone. When someone dies an odor of vanilla takes hold of the air. Cities sweat vinegar and stale tobacco, or cherry cough syrup. During summer, heat glazes its sugar-cubes. Trees turn into amphorae containing wine or grain. That’s when poetry flits and perches on the thin wires trilling from the laughter of children. The shadow retraces its step, crustacean, retrograde. Still, salt stings, open wounds never seal. Hunger unhinges, claws are honed, and the tombstone may prove too high for your hurdle.