Tranche of twilit sugar hedge
inhaled before seen at yard’s edge,
pushing horizon close, flocculent & mineral, 
like the best wines, alchemical
roots feeding the body’s whole palate
(defining mid-May’s Magnificat,
fleeting, fleeting) with life’s jokes.
May I?   Subjunctive, conditional, yoking
spring onion to summer’s spewed
cicadas jeweling rebirth, me & you.
Seasoned in the way a key’s teeth
in the cloistered, amethyst seething
of a lock could, should, might taste
the knob turning.  Burning.  In haste.
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