sometimes it works well
to hammer your dulcet note
xxxxxxxxinto the throat of the wind;
it has been a good year,
rain-wise, for the donkey orchids
xxxxxxxxof the Eneabba sand plains.

sanguine-yellow tremors in air,
stammerings of petal-syllables,
xxxxxxxxcheeks animated by the vivid flush
of pigments bladdered in downpour,
un-delicate elementals, entirely
xxxxxxxxguarded by scorpion plectra.

love-children at the sun’s last flaring—
at certain angles, they are coy
xxxxxxxxfaces squinching noon-burnt noses,
curved upon by casuarina locks;
then their tongues madden with desire,
xxxxxxxxand limp waspy legs dangle forth.

etheric flowerers who are not yet mass,
who are too light for air, four dimensions
xxxxxxxxof blossom conjured from sand,
residues of sky slumbering in earth:
orchid anima, punctuating the heathland
xxxxxxxxat the cusp of darkness.