The superstitious nature of the spoon
thrives on neglect. Drizzle with honey,
lighly crush cumin, toss grated carrots,
golden raisins, orange peel and lemon
juice; adjust the peppery bite of raw cabbage.
Darkness watched the colors explode,
collide, burn away, fade. In a broken
whisper: you like wings? Fistfuls
of cosmos, small dry bunches
that burst into fragrant
star-like blooms fade
with each season.
The moon hardly visible, soaked
in warmth—created from booms
and echoes—tied together with string;
hangs in a dry, dark location, surrounded
by lightning bugs and deep roots.
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