the fleeting repetition of a smell:
the sable arc of your fur--
the scarlet of
your curved tongue--
the waft of your breath
as if it still carried
on some honey breeze
into these depths
as if you still
meant
something
inimical--
as if your image
still drifted
on the mirroring shimmer
above this cracked red lake:
skin, or reflection
of heat.
but it's quiet.
my hide in tatters;
this does not matter.
suspended
as if in water,
i wait, patient
in pale state,
for the next scent
to bring back
what i never
had.