Wild bergamot weeds sing citrus-speak in spring.
Brooklyn flowering in the early aughts.
The night queen’s suspended bulbs.
Rain water in eucalyptus groves off Highway 1.
Electric crackle, downpour, panic grass, sizzling asphalt steam.
Tea service at the colonial parlor of Mme. Revere, topless psychic.
Silently watch the flame for 7 hours and you may spy liberation.
In clothes that look like rugs, singing “we must never break the chain.”
Where Orkney eagles carried Stoneage souls beyond the jagged cliffs
Frühstück with JSB at Café Zimmerman, 1723.
Oats, heather honey, hay.
Take it anywhere.
Handmade lacquered candle snuffer lid.
New England swamp rose. Hidden thickets, brackish tides.
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