Noses like artillery, like crocodiles arranging skirts
on flowers, noses like guns, or mountains. These noses
everywhere, smelling, opening, wrinkling. I have seen
noses that were unbearable husks, like the carcasses
of turtles, and noses that were, themselves, entire
princesses, or kingdoms. The other things, yes, yes,
but noses. They are stuffy or clear. Smelling every
universe in a dream tuft, a puff of vapor. The perfect
angles, the inlets. O sinuses beyond, like the heavens
hidden past the angel’s wings. Small mountain, holy
place, where the taste of living infiltrates, elaborates
expanding, evoking. The nose is knowledge blind,
set free from form and color, texture, shape and
temperature. Winged finger of the mind whose
arcs and tangents play upon the movements of
the subtlest atmospheres.