Inhale scent of char,
air thick with burning
bark, miles of looming
white cedars. Asking
for it—stretched white
trunks for flames
to lick up. Blazes climbing
higher, starving embers
reach for starved leaves.

Thin flags wagging
down the Florida-Georgia
line, plumes for a black
welcome sign... When
the weather channel
stops forecasting wildfires,
all I can smell are bones
ground into coquina streets.
A walk along the bay
that night brings whispers
of a singed town, pillaged
again and again,
coral and barnacle blues.
Here comes salt rain
with no resolution.



No reviews yet.