The Bougainvillea Line
Driving south, I cross it—the intangible line
beyond which bougainvillea grows,
beyond which the land is flagrant.
It’s not exact; there is no sign
as with a border, so everybody knows.
It doesn’t waft to me; it’s not even fragrant.
When I see the burning bush, alarm
feels like joy. Staring intently can’t
sear the retina, yet to capture
the exactness of its hue, a swarm
of violet tones descants
in throes of blind rapture.
Fire here, re there, a phoenix bent to a wall: flames trimmed to the of an arch or a carport. Still, no emergency crews are present. It maintains its delicate crêpe, burning out with a petulant sizzle.
