That First Fragrance Before Incense Was Ever Imagined

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

That air that doesn’t wish to be some thing
It isn’t, like the first time that you smelled

Him in the gospel song, his arm like wing

Of Lucifer whose seraph beauty quelled
The halls of heaven so Jehovah had
To tempt him into jealousy and cause
That gorgeousness to bend its pinions, sad
Forever after, Christ against the laws
Of beauty far too late, that air of waft
Of manly wonder, air of hidden hair
Mixed in with heat that hated things too soft,
That hair not needing anything but dare–
Those curls as black as sin might wish to be,
That hair and curls are what all saints foresee.

©  Phillip Whidden