Deodorant of Distant Light

Audio

A spray of flashbacks reloads the Chekhov’s gun

of my mind’s eye, -the fifth chamber of the heart-

whose trigger stirs my head like a mug of hot cocoa;

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When the match of chance remembrance lights up your nostrils,

you become a bloodhound, hunting down the usual suspects

on branching thought trails you'd unknowingly marked;

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including your Grandpa’s black walnut rocking chair,

beside your friend's crocheted green and grey beanie

and your nephew's torn touch and feel baby animal book

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Hindsight often feels like a séance as intense as incense,

wherein we commune with vanished moments

soaking in the steam of yearnings via a stream of association.

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