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?