St. Augustine

The forecast for the weather today is
fire. No one notices flames stretching, hot.
Gray flecks holding soft nothings blow over,
sink to a ghost town made of coquina,
slate, ash buildingspacked by palms of loose,
twisted fronds of love trees. The palm and oak
lovers work together at the task, they
form the city of St Augustine. One
porous rock soaks ash, one falls. Fronds sweep it
up into Minorcan gravestones on show,
next to warping boxy houses, wet wood
next to ash-and-coquina Castillo
cannons. No one notices fire follows
ash into the buildings, settles black on
thirty-thousand dollars of Tiffany
glass. Wind blows fire into the burning
dry town, wind sways the love trees. Palms push and
shine ashes to hang on display again.

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