They: Poet, speak of truth.
Poet: No poet fails to color the words.

They: Poet, speak of death.
Poet: No poet who writes is dead.

They: Poet, speak of love.
Poet: Do not love like a poet.

They: Poet, speak of grief.
The poet is dumbstruck.

Not since high school
has cologne been of value to me.
And since I lost my sense of smell,
Heaven smells the same as the tomb.

War has a different nature.
Even if a war is so small
it could be fought inside a walnut,
it would still percolate the chemistry of rotting horseflesh.

Throwing cologne at a war
does not change its stinking complexion,
nor change the way it bends itself,
ever downward, to the lowest terrain.

Would that the friction of conflict
could be soothed with cologne,
hurled by French girls from the parfumerie,
but perfume is a poor lubricant for real enmity.

Better it is confined to the halls of schools,
Great and small. Public, private. Saved for Saturday.
Splashed liberally among those with young noses
some of whom will believe and enlist.