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,
I’m stiff as a board, bored stiff with living like this, with this being half-crippled and adrift like the ancients in the hospice.
VQR hosts a panel to discuss the emerging medium of multimedia poetry.
They stitched their lives into the days,Hawkesbury fishermen, with a smokestuck to their bottom-lips, bent
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