Eight thousand miles from my childhood home, I'm pulled into a nostalgic reverie by the scent of straw and cow shit. This place, on the other side of the world, looks nothing like where I grew up, but that smell...
the acrid smell
of
burnt gun-smoke
dulls
in the mind,
but not
in the air
the brain tires of smelling it,
and so it fades,
but
it has nowhere to go --
not in this violent place
of dead & heavy air