perfume rising from memory's swamp

down wind from your memory
high enough the clouds are mist
in my constitutional I breath
deep the perfume of your time
in the living room at scarritt
on the red couch my hands lost
in the circuitry of your golden
wires you grew them so long
trying hard to find a recognition
that lived beyond these simple
years I am you know this
still high on my desire the burning
incense your woman's flesh
swollen and suddenly wet in
a post poetry night at scarritt
you failed to wear panties what
a good girl I can smell your
asshole in the fall evening
my self and its tongue an active
participant in this memory the
red couch it opens now in the
night of memory your too white
limbs arranged the lights low
the candles flicker steely dan
plays in the next room or is
that dolly parton hard to really
know I am so distracted hearing
again your words your voice
your possibility in that time
some decades back we did have
the slightest opportunity
to change the story

but we didn't