On Picking and Smelling a Wild Violet While Wearing Driving Gloves

Eponymous violet dandled in my fingers,
A swatch of violet upon the blackness
Of the thin kangaroo skin dully shining
Where it had fixed the wheel between my fingers
For miles through lowing droves of evening traffic
Stampeded westward from the epicenter
Of meadowlessness to the greening country
On the first Monday after daylight saving,
I lift your violet petals and gold chamber
To my gross nostrils rankling with tobacco
And sniff for any fragrance. At first nothing
Certainly not the violet of perfume
Can penetrate the nose of civilization.
A second whiff, and then the faintest sweetness
The finest elfin essence of distinctive,
Generic airs, the rarest violet gasses
Comes through, as clear and tiny as a baby’s
first word, and reforms my understanding.