Jeff Clark

 

Sash flaps, bathroom door slams, and by my nose passes the
bedroom's morning fragrance.
                                   Of a tomb and flu-sodden sailor his
perfume, with a slint of wheat, and one of tobacco plumes
above the bed

               As my bed now, beware this, one of musk, two of
dead cards, cuttlefish, pits

 

 

Confusion