Smell of (fantasized) cell number on a napkin-
wheat-colored, taking stride with the outcast wind
bouncing off the sleeves of Monte Carlo-
barks with attentive seasoning;

I remembered that smell inside the subway car
in the jute-fiber knot of flesh,
furnished myself with its contour,
mucus fondling of despair that unfolds
its sorry, coy sequence.

When we're asked about the imagination
we who can't smell it as well imagine
a ribald audacity on our part,
like a whos-who on a pinned up list, like
sunlight thrown like a muffler around your neck