Solace from anemones,
sepals of instinct pushing the air.
Why do they matter so much, there
in the room at noon while nothing moves
around them: scarlet, creams, and burgundies,
magenta, bone-white, and bruise-like blues;
the wind’s daughter, or bride, for some,
for others a temple to the wounds of Tammuz—
or living itself, wordless, longing.
Where is that luminous lusciousness from?