The sniff of the real, that's
what I'd want to get
how it felt
to sit on Parliament
Hill on a May evening
studying for exams skinny
seventeen dissatisfied
yet sniffing such
a potent air, smell of
grass in the heat from
the day's sun
I'd been walking through the damp
rich ways by the ponds
and now lay on the upper
grass with Lamartine's poems
life seemed all
loss, and what was more
I'd lost whatever it was
before I'd even had it
a green dry prospect
distant babble of children
and beyond, distinct at
the end of the glow
St Paul's like a stone thimble
longing so hard to make
inclusions that the longing
has become in memory
an inclusion
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