Sense

Mid-morning,
I stood in moonlight.
Time withered, shrank, froze.

Moths in amber,
inverted bottles.

The deep green odor of cut grass,
a chlorophyl smell, slippery sap,
blade cuttings gather’d at the tops,
of my shoes.

Vinegar, and sea.

. . . erudition tumbles

tradition perils

execution marvels,

. . . a future heralds.