Alexandra Wuest

FIRE SEASON

Every morning 
I feed the machine 

I do a little dance 
& mantra myself 

Out of the spiral 
Pink carnations 

On the mantle 
A red-tailed hawk 

Sitting on 
The neighbor’s Prius

I say hello 
To the day 

My heart 
A tiny fragment 

Of seashell 
Worn smooth

From time 
& water 

I sit on vessels 
Forged by 

Anonymous hands 
& algorithms

Clocks gone
Stupid

Trying to pin
Butterflies

Behind glass
Calling it

Noon when 
The sun presses 

Against skin 
At a certain angle 

I stay inside 
Browsing sunsets

The flattened
Planes of 

Language
Trying to adjust

Rain to paper
The wetness 

Still seeping through
Things get small

Or already were
Waiting for stars

To appear
I don’t hear

The names
I shake

& move in
My seclusion

While outside 
Six coyotes 

Walk through
The ambient

Gloaming
All knowing 

Too well
What it is

To be watched
But not considered

FAKE FLOWERS ARE THE ONES THAT LIVE FOREVER

I told you the heat felt like a room
We could step inside of 

A haloed pink sky / like an error message

The next morning
All that earth

In uncertainty’s wake / & to think I cried so much

The night of the full moon
In pisces

Everything is relative:
Stars hang / winds change / & I took a picture of the sun
Its grace so loud

For a second I thought 
I could see through walls