Time is a heady gardenia, white scent
pulling me into the green underswell
in which I am young and still unstacking
the matryoshka doll of his mind.
A desire path, the internet says,
is a consequence of unruliness,
through foliage an unplanned line not set
by formal design. They expedite
our wanting of home, of fields with their herds
of bells, of fish the patient fisherman
silvers the end of his hook with. Cow path,
pig trail, goat track, game trail, path that compulsion
leads us to suffer, the uncharted road
between us like orchards the dead light up.
DESIRE PATH by Matthew Carter Gellman
