My friend from Cody called the other day
Like a fireball blasting down a tunnel
The smell of Wyoming invaded my veins
at the sound of his voice.
He reminded me: somewhere out there
A heartbeat is in time with the Earth’s rhythm
And I’m missing it.
An elk is lifting her head to sniff the wind
And I’m not seeing it.
My son tells me there’s a store in Brooklyn that bottles every possible smell.
Can they make me one called ‘Wyoming’?
If I had that smell, I’d use it like a sacrament
sniff it only when I needed to be brought back there.
It’s February and the wolves are in heat…give me the bottle
There needs to be some real rhythm in my life…one sniff and the smell of limestone and chalky bentonite
