His memory is all in the nose.
Frankincense and bitter herbs
in a censer.
Fumblings
in the rectory.
Passing the church,
lifts off the gas
for a second. Then
guns it, foot down
almost through the floor.
Rolls up the window.
He won’t hold his nose
to genuflect.
Still stinks here;
reeks of blood,
of
copper and iron
like a mine, a tunnel,
a cave-in.
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Dark Matter 
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