The trace is
growing into fetor

the flint that
stained your hand

with ash-burns drifts
the room wears you

as a drape
the cat sniffs in circles

searching for you
in your scent

his whiskers spring
over the dress of the bed

the skirt of the recliner
he abandons the

hunt in favor
of crusted provisions

dried out from
the day before

and I will do
the same.