Trace of a Memory
The smell of geraniums removes me,
the petals, bruised. A cloying perfume, sweet
but sickly. Blood bright, seeping into sea,
the memories unbidden, incomplete.
I close my eyes and try to capture them,
impossible, they spill through cracks, escape.
An image, poignant, lost. I try to stem
the flow. Unwinding celluloid, black tape.
The moment gone. The stench transformed, a gross
last trace of something fleeting, lethal dose.