The lilac leaves make hearts, beating,
flushed as the clouds with water and wind.
The oak in the next yard screams white.
In the Everglades, marl is burning.
If you look up to the blue-black
sky you can spend a lot of time.
Follow planes south until one day
clematis flares on the garage
and a raspberry’s red from soil and sun
and a lily furls its many tongues.
Until the smoke bush puffs red until
the daisies and their wet bald heads
bob in wind. In the Everglades
bobs the bladderwort. Small yellow
hungry head streaming, now burning.
If I flew there on that plane, its whine
in the westerly wind, in the drops
that stuff earth into air, push me
south, what would I see, except red
air, red tide, flooding city, no home.
