my little grandmother knows no pain she believes that hunger—is food
[…]
That night I read The Revolt of the Masses not yet knowingthat at that same hour theyset houses on fire. They say,an old woman tossed in flames trying
All I can do to keep from believing where, in truth, your last steps led,
Wake with a kiss on your lips. The sun steps down through trees. You sit in the corner of my eye all morning, working on something.
Across three fences the lights and noise of a party at anchor; a paddock dusty with stars; our lit-up talk forgettable.
did it come in the bark of a dog in the eucalypt air, the marsupial faces tilted, listening, or the ghostly skin and the foreign hair,