Wandering Hither and Yon

Incense, she said, should be like
a memory of itself.

Or like the first distant notes of
an imaginary song.

Or maybe, she said, like a poem you love,
whose words you can understand,
but whose meaning remains obscured.

Or a slice of asian pear, whose juice, watery and faint,
eaten on a spring afternoon, suggests another day
in a lifetime far away.