At the pub there was no one, but the light
Was on and the kitchen hadn't been closed.
In the last afterthought of a gone daylight,
The small lake communed with a gleam
Past the deck of the joint. The air indicated
A locally particular combination of woods,
Mosses, a bit of damp highway strip's oils,
Wildflowers faded into dark, a musk,
And the unnameable that would have to be
Named after the place it identifies, the way
The color of an orange is best called orange.
It smelled like Kenogami Bridge on the deck
Of the Kenogami Bridge Inn last night,
That's the best I can describe it. You can't
Remember being anywhere anyway if
You have no memory of the scent. If you can
Remember a scent, then you know you were
A lover once, no matter what became of you,
The only way you know you were there.
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