Koshy Koshy, "Itr Seller," 2005
Towards the end of our run, the mélange stopped us.
A sweetness, so much of this place every May: almost
unctuously floral star jasmine, pale yellow honeysuckle,
a moment or decades carrying us as we move through
the slight wind, as we pause and sniff the air. But not
just sweetness. Woodsmoke, burnt grease, resinous
mint rosemary, each vanishing as soon as noticed. And
while we know those by heart, one more, unfamiliar:
bitterroot, pitch-dark, maybe oud? A fugitive incense—
lily-in-tar?—pierces us, leaving splinters set to burn.
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