habit of crossing my t´s
a reduction sauce
that burns the tongue.
insert your
idea here:
if swinging moons and suns
don´t fit, the swing
of grass and water will.
each corner full
that from the top
of the mountain a little
bit of nectar drizzles down,
off the tongue into
the mind, so deep and long
and complex a thought,
so intricate the swirls
trills and roars.
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