Unscrew blue glass vial, draw deep breath smell smoke.
Pub’s turf fire in county Clare? Nothing nearly so cozy
nor comforting:; instead distrubing, earthy, potent, honest,
doesn’t promise me a rose garden, rather burnt manure.
Just the facts, ma’am.
Is this why I crave a whiff before bed and on waking?
Because vetiver clears my head, gets me real? So I’m damn
sure that whatever I meet asleep or on the street has to be
gentler, simpler, sweeter than this?