Indictment of the Time

Anise fills my mouth
While the words I speak
By the leaves of May’s gold
Cloaking treetops

Every little photon a bomb
Napalming and dancing along

So much more to go
As the song of fission
Must go on

Down veins
Down vessels
Arteries of firs
And these tall creatures
Tasting the clouds
As dusk rolls by

Turning the taste in their mouths

Specters of ichor float freely
As hot snow pollen
Of the trees’ telemetry
Radiolaria by another name
Ingrained with black anise
Blasting posthaste

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