Incense

Pungent filament,

finespun swirling line hung

in air, snaring

nothing in particular, conspicuous

as a live wire nonetheless:

how incense

holds sway,

climbing the narrow chimney of itself

only to

come undone

at the fluent end

of its dominion,

giddy as a silkworm gone

sensationally astray. Here

is the frayed rope charmed out of ash,

here the nimble

melody of the flute-

featherweight, aria

of aroma, the air's own

nom de plume.

Who will trace

this signature of smolder, who translate

the nomenclature of smell

as it permeates a room,

path of the supplicant's unhurried prayer?

For incense

is nothing if not

sweet time-

sandalwood, scent of green mountains, wisp

of the redolent

middle of spring-time

raveling in the deepest sense,

the amnesiac season

growing fragrant, accountable, as it burns

down the length of its fuse.