anne elias

Indifferent this fire in the air,
A moth, a spider
It is round, it is this that approximates relationships,
Undulating hostility.
In the place where the pages are parted,
Suspended the laundry is hung,
The time sorted through,
Red brick to cinder.
Colors accumulate on the backs pressed in isolation,
Embossed with uncertain lines.
In the hiss of heated air,
Pollen and insects rise with the movement of a dividing hand.
It's all beyond life size.