Scents and smells.

When poets talk of
scents and smells,
my mind shrinks:
maybe I've grown cold
to the lights of the world,
but my nose
cannot detect
the smell

of fresh-cut grass

or the nasal fare

of spring and autumn.

Is it just
an accepted craziness
to pretend to know

these many scents?

Do poets think themselves

better equipped to tell?

Or do they really glean

the true characters

of all these free-floating molecules?

If I were to go

up a poet's nose,

I wonder whether she'd notice

my subtle farts.

Or would she simply

mistake

the smell

for autumn mulch?