In Scent of a Woman,
Al Pacino gets all decked out
in his smart dress blues
and prepares to shoot
his head off in a ritzy room
of a lush hotel.
His blindness seems
a ruse of fate
asphyxiating courtesy.
Alphabet soup
of Braille with bread,
oddity that’s
uninvited to the prom,
but still in need,
so much in need,
of havens on the River Styx.
I watched the film
from the distance of eyes.
But some of what he hated so
in terms of carnal punishment
I understood from walking on
a bleeding stump.
Money was a luxury--
lust that doesn’t mean enough--
gold and turquoise peacock
feathers parked on birds
that scream inside.
Serendipity’s spades--
curled cards too many eyes
had second-guessed.
Tragedy confessed, compressed,
obsessed with playing out its palms.
The “scent” of the woman was sentience
and licking smooth agility.
Cyclone time in Windsor knots
left gender issues in the dust.
A volcano becomes
a national park--
a contents page
to brag about.
I’m too busy
spying on
its miracle
to capture
much worth
writing down.
The page grows
weaker as I work.
Silk water prisms
reflect the sky--
nature’s braggadocio
without a penny
its purse.
All this rush
from time’s mistake
begins to question
marriage beds of
progress for
a wedding trail.
Smug short-sheets
of architecture
running rulers
over globes.
So this is how
things fall in place
when rims of
rock are left
to settle destinies.
Breath of quite
unraveled smug
like windmills
of a daffodil.