I think of your blind odor
too long till I collide with
barbers, and am suspected.

The clerk malingers when I
nod. I am still afraid of
the natural. Even the

decrepit animals, 
coveting their papers and
curbs, awake and go breathing

through the warm darkness of
hotel halls. I think that they
are you coming back from the

colossal obscurity
of your exhausted passions,
and dash to the door again.