An elusive corpse flower blooms every year near a field of seashore paspalum. On moonless nights, its stem emits a glow in the deepest shade of indigo. But of course this funereal glow is nothing compared to the scent of the most exquisite rot that wafts through the air when the night is warm and the ocean is restless. Tilt your head to one side, hide yourself under the cover of darkness, and focus your internal antenna to the pull of earth’s greening. What does she say to you? Surely you know her refrain by heart.
Last year you camped out in clumps of wild fennel. Where will you sleep tonight? (Under a veil of crushed blue velvet, listening to sludge, and peacing out, totally.)
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Today: the skunky-green scent emitted by a wreath of dried mugwort hung over your pillow, a craggy shard of danburite, music in the key of A, the skull of a tiny black cat that turns into dust at your touch, and the thorny kiss of bramble.