Cultivated Taste

When did pickled garlic
Become my vice.

Upon the morning
April air
Condense with pollen
That knows no boundaries.

Unlike the spring birds,
Perched up together
Through nature's harmony...
As the tingling taste
Fancies my dried out
Tongue locked in a battle
With spices and sugars
Doused into balance
With teas and coffees;
I pick at the scabs
That remain from yesterday.

I know that my taste
May change,
Even if my mind
Strives to stay
Intact and above that
Potent clove of earthly desires.