He glances over his shoulder. She mouths ‘Write.’
Melon ball lashed with scarlet,
his body is a half-painted nail
We are bewildered.
What is it holy warriors
hear so clearly at their prayers?
Farewell, the smell of wet acrylic.
It’s as if the gums are still trying to move—or perhaps
they are moving, but very, very slowly.
White as wave crest, an osprey and its mate
prowl the thermals …
Spare room, never occupied,
now filled with the smell of sand and mint;
muffled knocks and sighs.
Wattlebirds and honeyeaters are crazed
With bottlebrush madness in the evening breeze
A pulse, an inkling. Numinous wellings.
Filament that seems to emerge inborn.
At the Western Station I will see you very soon, dressed in a gas mask.