You said it smelled like moss. But my fur knows
bog-tide, the violet threshing of Jacarandas.
It was windy. I tugged at your cuff. A spoon
tarnished in oatmeal and you cut paper
to mimic how luster wilts. The clamor was pieces
of cast music parceled into sheets.
We both recognized the odor of sunlight
across afternoons. Unknown like the gold of Van Gogh’s sheaves
you said you heard the petal abandoning the stalk.