Salt Farm
March 18 2023
The salt
tastes of the sea
from which it's drawn.
You'd think water was all the same;
that it's all one ocean,
the blue
on the map of the world.
But this is only the surface
and we are blind to its depths.
Cupped in your hand, transparent,
and in the deep abyssal trench
black;
cold, sunless, airless.
At best, comparison —
tastes like, reminds me of.
But melting on your tongue
singular;
named
for its meroir,
its place, in the 3 dimensions.
As well as time.
Taste again
when the tide comes in.
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