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.