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Woman can scent the soul of man

like I can smell breakfast cooking

in the kitchen on a Sunday morning:

bacon, pancakes, coffeedripping

into an empty pot. 

I throw back the comforter

and throw on jeans

worn limestone blue.

I must find an oldnew thought:

a thought that finds home in each bend

and swell of the mind and soul

like the old denim has learned

to soften where my knee bends

and where my thigh swells.

She is firepurgatorio and records

will not remain written on burning

paper but this screen,

this binaryelectrical mind,

may accuse forever.

You lure me with the music from the ice cream truck–

carnival tunes pierce the suburban night.

I cannot hear the LP that lowly plays

Dire Straits live from sometime

before the CD and after LSD–

1984.