Dulce

I do not write paroles,
nor elicit parsing of scented sounds
that ears in wicker set, like metling wax
mollify the convex curve in wetness bent.
How silly and salubrious that gauchous
endeavor, our scent to succor, our eyes
to ease.  My head so to that garden bent
a soft incline of incense and floral kept,
a new parfume for that bumbling bee,
a new clothing for an opening Me.

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