Sweet Summer Notes and Fig Trees

by The Juicer

The fig is how looks my lush brain, and they knew when layers
were scanned one at a time. Christians and Jews, and people
and Plato rolled subserviently into one sweet bite of the heavens

green, swaying in the summer breeze, unbending, inviting
and in all likelihood, free. Notes of oak, intellect and sex, obsessions;
never mind. You should walk on decidedly, for now, on the

way to that grove, where I sat for long under the shadows
of spring, by the buttery sea. Growing grass at the roots, unbidden
reach underneath, digging deep into amber, free my perfume.