There are two houses in the neighborhood with star jasmine growing on a trellis by the front door. The plants are in full bloom, and their scent’s so strong, walking through it is like being in a dense fog. Indeed, it seems odd the particles aren’t visible, for one’s spirit-ship is immediately lost on the jasmine sea of it. And yet, passing by in the evening, or early in the morning, not once have I seen the doors to the houses standing open. Maybe the inhabitants have already had their fill, and are floating through their jasmine dens thinking they are Sherlock Holmes.
A fallen nest, confessed of light and sound,
no longer here the second time around.
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