We Are All Amalgamates

We are all amalgamates of taste and sound; 
once we heard, once we smelled
something was integrated into our person
chopped onions on a grill
the small tinkle clunks of bamboo windchimes 
the breeze light
the sun strong
and its 1998
the grand opening of the aquarium
downtown
the dog had just died
so we got out
 
Walking down a busy street, people moving, no eye contact
the woman moving past you
her perfume is familiar
you just see her out of the corner of your eye
stranger in profile, odor of knowing
but shes gone
and the street is full of others
so you keep walking
 
That one day when you had an orange, an orange so
sweet and firm that the juice dribbled off
of your chin in obcene joy
and briefly you smelled orange blossoms
and remembered the groves in endless
rows outside of Redlands
(California before the fall)
and in summer heat
watching brown hands reaching 
and picking them 
and somehow 
you felt those hands grab the fruit
and you were someone else entirely
with calluses like stigmata
and sweat on your brow.
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