Herbert Williams
The Smell
Something is rotten
in my soul. It makes
the badger’s nose twitch, the owl
shiver its feathers. Do not mock
the truth of this. I feel it
as night feels
the awesome coming of day.
This rottenness stems
not so much from sin as from
the bland indifference to anyone.
I am centred in self
as irrevocably as a plant
is centred in its sap or the clouds
in the necessity of floating.
If you smell this thing
do not move away.
Absorb it into yourself,
it will enrich you,
engulf you, diminish you.
You will be the smell,
perfect, unwholesome,
complete.
Page(s) 72
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