The Natural Progression

Eric Weinstein

vision flees first,
footfalls stumbling away, heavy
on the floorboards overhead.

i can only recall your shape
in deep dreaming
or photographs.

(i had forgotten
the freckle on the right side
of your lower lip.)

hearing goes next, your voice
limping through a field of static, the listening
as through a phonograph,
the needle damaging the recording
each time it is played back.

taste escapes through the windows:
tongue, lip balm, coffee, raspberry.

feeling hides in the attic
until chased out of the house with an axe.
(unbearable
the bare mattress, the empty air.)

scent stays the longest,
sitting up all night at the coffee table
leafing through magazines, shadowing
me through the streets each day, which is why

today i found your perfume in a crowd
and turned, searching the horizon
for the back of your head
sailing away from me, toward the winter sun.

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