Searching for My Bread

I've been tearing my room apart,
searching for a book called
"The Odes of Neruda"

I have this phrase--
"the bread of her fragrance"--
running through my mind,
and it fills me with
such amazement that I must
return to the text and
make certain it is real.

How succinct.
How poetic.
How marvellously Neruda.
The woman's fragrance as bread,
intangible calories to nourish the intangible soul.
If I am remembering this correctly
then this is something everyone should read.

But the book still escapes me
amid this confounded clutter,
and without the words before me
I am slow to say something so perfect
is real.