Replete

Next in my series of many month-old poems I never bothered to do anything with:

Replete with you, incapable of more

before the war which robbed all saws

of pressures past from mind whole-cloth,

the pressure on my back, the love, the wrath

of complete repletion, a maximum in effect –

flipping every defect, hedging every bet

with a rhyme or two about the cut of your hair,

its receding rhythms, the coloured underwear

from Next or Topman unintentionally collected

year on year, which somehow nicely fit

(yet are not fit to wear). Because scent,

like taste, I can almost soon forget

until I finger the aroma that lingers where we met