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.