They’re full-blown in their early spring rush – pin cushions a fakir’s bed of nails so soft to tread on, so easy to make false comparisons by, and all the baggage that carries – rest-break on a granite slab looking out over the island sea of scrub shaded with formations beneath a green lagoon’s surface. It’s what we bring to the apogee before the drying-off, dead crunch beneath our feet as rock- dragons wake to the heat, and emphatic belief that the dead will stay dead and there will be no lift, no rebirth, wherever you come from, whatever you believe. Step carefully around these wreaths hooked into granite sheen, holdalls for a soil-less ecology, a carpet you know would say so much more if your boots were off and skin touched life brought back, restored, gifted, bristling with death because death is the most alive district to inhabit. We could say so much more if only we had the time.
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