Pungent gas—
burns the nostrils,
like the smell of your father after an oil change.
Mint floats in a natural spring,
spinning,
spinning—
then crash.
You’re on the ground,
breathing in the old brown rope rug.
It smells like forgotten sweat and basement dreams.
Memory, sensation, emotion—
Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost.
A trinity of triggers,
sacred and sour.