I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns. – Sylvia Plath, ‘Poppies in July’
sunset dyes the cliffs orange, their reason is something delicate as a blue wren’s song when i feed the wallabies carrots they clash, like acrobats, bouncing off the red earth.
soon it will be time to light a fire, cook soup, kiss the cold wind, to spend an hour trying to capture 4G, as the sad android icon regrets ‘a network change detected’ calmed by ambient light, not yet understanding this splitting, part decay, part bloom, but here’s an emoji, a link, & a password to zoom at 7pm EST
spend hours watching wind-slicked flames, branches shrivel to marble, to ash, as the violet evening graces with cicada empathy, shy wood moths in pipe-cleaner trees, this is what i do, collect cloud artefacts, worth a look,
red-flecked acacias, acrylic lichens on a rotting log where a fiddler beetle lays her eggs,
crimson sea fig shocks like Plath’s ‘hell flames’
rainbow day of their birth 19 years ago—the backwash and undertow dragging sand from the dunes, where i photo-text, our signal erratic as the southern sea
