“...cyanide makes the most beautiful ink (blue)”
something in those words had felt like medicine—
and medicine is oft bitter, or perhaps oversaccharine—
so you went and found yourself a plant scientist,
deadheat of the highdesert,
gardening in March and
oooh, it all looks so nice.
took my lifedream and ran with it;
another dream of mine, vaporous
in the tepid-stillness-to-chill of the highdesert
night,
a dream of Mine he built for You:
new lovegrove gloamover,
fire metal water.
yet still I step inside closed eyes
plucking from the dark in the back
that core, kernel readied for
monsoondownpour, and
siiigh, oasis intaking—
my stay [brief and] fleeting,
“I leave today.”
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