Tuesday, June 16, 2015


The damp air becomes a spicebox as I walk between
floods. The smell of rotting Johnson grass, retted blades
waving from beneath piles of brush like some drowned
Ophelia; the last star jasmine, sweet overlaying petrichor;
the ammoniac smell of bats under a bridge. In this way
I navigate between the sacred and the mundane, nose
twitching, moth to the flame shining on my fingernails.

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