The Hungry Artist

The smell of wet pavement.

Reminds me of the fact
that rain wets pavement,
among other things –
a trivial detail.
Like all the theories
and codes,
studied and read,
dead in my head.

Until a moment of recognition.

Like the color red,
from apples under a tree,
stained by a kiss
of lipsticked lips which kissed
the skin of an apple
before resting on a blood-stained bed.
I won’t remember
that the bed was stained
before the rest,
and who’ll remember
what was kissed first,
the apple or the tree?

Red lingers –
like the smell of wet pavement
long after the rain.