A June wildfire bruises the sky: 12,000 acres of pines choke and I stand in the drive catching specks of ash in my palm. We pine. We are barren. We long for as much as we empty. We long to be empty. Three a.m. lights in a bulkhead town, I rub the jean button he’d earlier undone and I am still barren of remedies. We can hardly bear to bear. Smoke filters though the containless blue between a sunflower field we’d once taken machetes to a number of stems and a river opening to trifle marshland. The nights of firefly parade now flocking a field of izles. This feels all too human: no time to heal, constant reckoning, an hour till daylight. A glowing sphere of deep orange births, the first lightning strike veins the underbelly of sky, a shining moment mirrors a year of decisions. These wildfires, so keen on creating their own weather. Their source: the growing abandon, while woodboring beetles mate in burnt tree trunks and pines bend to flame for opening cone, spreading seed. In my eye again, marigold fumes bond with a plain charge of light, illume my cornea, fallen hair, general delight. Between the wanting and the unwanting, the fulcrum is reckless faith.
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