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,
one smudged by a kiss
of lipsticked lips
which kissed the skin
and a blood-stained bed.
I won’t remember
when the blood bled,
or what was kissed first,
the apple or the bed.
Red lingers –
like the smell of wet pavement
long after the rain.
The Hungry Artist 