The Ever-Staying Art

No one knows
how gods see
or women
sense
what’s behind—

a glance
beyond their eyes,
as if we’re
mere flesh
and feel.

Yet humans
swear
gods savor
opaque scents
better than experts,

relishing
libations
while we,
blind to gods,
dim to women,

know less still—
yet never doubt
how to honor
or please
either,

rushing
with gifts,
buying grace,
treating
our soul’s flame—

celestial bloom—
as a flick,
a puff,
light smoke,

when beneath
its fragrance
dogs and cats
could scribe
tomes.