I have come far, that is true,
and returned to the old words.
Earth. Sun. Grass. Desert.
Rain. There are times when the rain
turns into a forest. The streets
steam. The feet beneath the desk
begin to rot. Learn: already
in September the light betrays you
to a sky of flashing knives.
I have not been here long enough
to decipher the bizarre signs
of the ghost trees,
to wipe away the blue tattoos
from the skin, to read
the obituary column beside
the barbecue. Learn from the light,
from the rain and from the earthy wombat.
Translated by Ruth and Matthew Mead.
Image credit: AnnaHackett