Smells that a dream emits

Sunglassed and distracted
somehow I make my way here
this cold Saturday morning
fingertips icicles
christmas approaching
past the church
funerary cars parallel parked
pigeons on the wires
ink grey splotches in the
grey brilliant sky
pointing at wisps
of smoke sailing from the chimneys.

Somehow I walk 20 blocks or more
with my mind on candied oranges
and the smells that a dream
emits: warm and syrup
encrusted dried figs and
roasted chestnuts and yolk yellow cake
the hills my legs long for
rising in my chest
the burnt wheat fields
to the night that
standing on the balcony to survey
rolls without end into the sky
and primordial forest
once trespassed
the land of our beginnings

as the ice shorn sidewalk
forces a return to think on
my footing
the blood careens through me
holding the sweet smell of the
sicilian night
I ask the pigeons to achingly
hold their picture blocks

I dream of the hills