This is a dirty poem.
It's called "The Fragrance Wheel."
And an oenologist, o, e, n, o, is a wine aficionado.
I think, right?
Is that how you say it-- oenologist?
I don't know.
"The Fragrance Wheel."
"She takes it into her mouth-- your middle finger--
and licks it, nips it, sucks it, then slides it out
and moves it down, and guides it inside to ferret out the spot.
There, oh yes.
And after an unspoken, pleasing while, she slides the puppet
out.
You talk a little, drink the last of the wine,
she gets dressed, she gently shuts the door.
What lingers after, what sadness?
What funkiness rises in the air, and slowly takes the room
by force?
You slide it under your nose--
your finger-- back and forth, apprentice parfumier,
oenologist, sous chef.
Haze of smoke in a jazz cafe with more or less top notes
and bass, essence of the untweaked blossoms
of the ginkgo and the tree of heaven,
and sour milk, urine, bath of vinegar and common sweat.
And guiding the mix, the cruel blind endlessness
of outer space made inner, without you, without the man."