Photosynthesis
I met angels on Ormand Beach. It was at the end of a long week and a large drink we’d called Screaming Jesus—vodka, grape soda, and stalks of rosemary. My husband and I were dug in near a sandcastle collapsing—our marriage spread as thin as sunscreen, when legions of seraphim appeared between the loamy, gray-brown waves. They murmured phrases neither of us understood—still don't. But we joke about how much DNA we left in that hotel room, the sun-blistered skins we shed, our discarded selves hoovered up by housekeeping, buried in an anonymous Florida landfill. Believe me, or don’t, I’ll never forget the sage of those graygolden halos—rusted-silver carabiners secured to spikes, driven into the hands of heaven.
creeping thyme
perennial landscape—
innocent as grass
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