Redolence is pure

anticipation, is nubbed spines
covering every inch of the jack-
fruit’s body: green armor

keeping the gold inside its
quarters— that’s what is meant
by inflorescence: all that heady

perfume repeating its singular
note through hallways of mirrors.
Lucky, the one that breaks

through without losing
itself. The one who comes
to understand time’s

illusion, how salt marries
ash, makes everything teeter
close to ripeness.

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