The Wheel of the World

The Almanac of Perfume

She is drunk on soft staircases reaching with splintered fingers.
She is a coat rack. The trench is her sandy curls and the windbreaker is her unwavering torso.
She is the radio station that leaks perfume.
She is a starry hairnet that holds light.
She is a bruised automobile at sixteen.
She is a lacerated plane ticket to the Berlin Wall. 
She is the ending of every story. 
She is storming ornaments up the mountainside.
She whistles lemon juice in your face.
She inhales a dainty poker chip. Idly smoke curls up the staircase.
She is a sweater vest.
                                                A chained cross.
                                                                                    A windbreaker stitched with thread.
She is a nose pressed up against glass.
She straightens rivers and blooms skyscrapers. 
She carves starfish into tea bags.
She is spider’s passion.
She is a Christmas wreath, noosed around the poker chip.
She screams the spider’s name on the radio.
She cannot hear perfume from the Berlin Wall.
She whips the windbreaker into a story every time.
                                    You see her face through muddy water.