Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Heather Phillipson

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Who concocts the smell
of dogs which smells like
an extreme close-up
of the world oozing
in at the edges.
Full as an ice-cube is full of liquid.
I mistook it for solidity.
 
The world is too full of smells.
Though it’s impossible
to see the top of it
they crawl between my legs
in the shimmering fuzz
on top of the plant
stickers of evenings
tongues held out
pocket-friendly air-fresheners
strikes on our nostrils.
They come at me streaming.
 
Why the dog? Why not
the dog? Was it only a dream
of soil heating held
and stimulated
for his unique aroma.
It’s not a way in
but it places you somewhere
that smells strong
and looks strong leaving
behind us. Hi. 
Close

23

Who concocts the smell
of dogs which smells like
an extreme close-up
of the world oozing
in at the edges.
Full as an ice-cube is full of liquid.
I mistook it for solidity.
 
The world is too full of smells.
Though it’s impossible
to see the top of it
they crawl between my legs
in the shimmering fuzz
on top of the plant
stickers of evenings
tongues held out
pocket-friendly air-fresheners
strikes on our nostrils.
They come at me streaming.
 
Why the dog? Why not
the dog? Was it only a dream
of soil heating held
and stimulated
for his unique aroma.
It’s not a way in
but it places you somewhere
that smells strong
and looks strong leaving
behind us. Hi. 

23

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