What is it you’ve covered up?
What scandalous stench requires
This floral flood?
This calamitous riot
Synthetic assault
Sinus affliction
The perfume I smell with my eyes
Murks atop rot
I scent the soul of soil
in the putrefaction.
It’s not mine, this miasma
That’s no doubt clung
to my breathable cottons
I think this at the woman
boarding as I alight.
I will her to know.
M. W. IRVING 