And a friendly reminder, as of April 2017, my first collection – BONE INK – is available for order from Guillotine Press. This is one of the poems that didn’t make it into the collection.
half-way to Rouse Hill
I’ve been rolling
fallen trees, searching for snakes.
thirsty enough to kneel
and drink a silty mouthful of hoof print from a dam;
Holbie laughs. He wants me to talk.
I tell him a story of colours:
blanco, naranja, morado, gris
amarillo, verde, rojo, negro, turquesa, marron, rosa, azul, oro.
this place, the stubble of cow-trod paddocks
a copse of trees, doesn’t know the selves
we live with.
by the time he’s had enough we can see
the caravan park where she lives,
up a dirt road. I wonder
what he thinks.
eyes straight into my mind;
my friend, a falling kite
who fights to his eyebrows,
who would let me squeeze the blood from his ribs,
we’re gods of stolen change
Another oddity from 2015. Slowly clearing out the old stuff.