In some last inventory, I’ll have lost a season, through the occlusion of summer by another hemisphere.
I breathe the leaves of the basil It has news for me— For all my senses
Alec, I said you’d be around by stratagem or shift looking for a lift to the somewhere burial ground
Like wallabies we hurtle This way and that Unworried whether the world Be round or flat.
A yacht lies down in my window, on the harbour the dusk has come.
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,
A lucky rain misted the far hills to fresco
In back wards, sea spray thinning ash as the city turned from itself, the ocean which brought it, faces off
