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The lime

Squeezing rind against skin I call the luna moth, wings dusting air like perfume. Wing to lip, antennae to hand he leaves the pollen's gift. A trace of lime follows him into the arc light. Later at night I enter the garden. Where I have dropped seed, lime trees are growing. The branches send semaphore messages to a silver-skinned elm, who, at half-point, begins her relevee. My toes take the ground. Night breathes on my naked limbs bathed in gesture. So much begins from stillness. At my fingertips the pale green flowers wave.