[26]
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Skunk
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Sometimes,
      announced
      by
      a
      percussion
     
     
      of
      sparking
      moths
      tapping
      out
      the
      season,
     
     
      then
      sizzling
      on
      the
      window
      screen,
     
    

    
     
      you
      come
      intermittently
      on
      a
      breeze,
     
    

    
     
      as
      a
      white
      stripe
      upon
      the
      dark.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Or
      through
      the
      car
      vents,
     
    

    
     
      as
      pungent
      gas
      from
      a
      road-kill
      ghost,
     
    

    
     
      a
      bad
      rose
      that
      starts
      off
      sweet,
     
    

    
     
      the
      flowers
      and
      flowers
      much
      too
      much.
     
     
      You
      surround
      us
      like
      the
      speakers’
      sound,
     
     
      stereo
      for
      the
      nose.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Or
      parasitically,
      on
      the
      backs
      of
      dogs,
     
    

    
     
      a
      fume
      of
      vinegar
      and
      musk
      untimely
      mixed,
     
    

    
     
      some
      potent
      fuel,
      a
      furry
      smell,
     
    

    
     
      a
      waddling
      smell
      that
      goes
      back
      and
      forth
      in
      the
      nostril
     
     
      and
      down
      the
      throat.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Culvert-lurker,
      lawn-rooter,
      grub-lover
      —
     
     
      what’s
      your
      knack,
      never
      getting
      downwind
      of
      yourself?
     
    
   
   
    
     
      —Brent
      MacLaine