It could be almost anything; the crackling layers of pastry
greasing up your paper bags, the smell of that air before the rains
which drenched those early, angry kisses.
A way of reading Freud, the endless, hanging scent of dye,
the tapestry maybe worth a fortune
hammered to the white backside
of your kitchen wall.
It could just as well be footsteps mutely humming
on some concrete stairs outside, the fizz of tramlines,
Miles Davis, the sound of distant dogs, that child;
I’ll spend my remaining days out hunting
for ways to take me back, and
for ways to leave again.