Pinken

I

It is morning on the third day. The wattlebird

responsible for the vertical hour. Courtyard bricks already

baking moderate to high.         Dreams were no good again.

Something tidal on a gravel beach. Something

like a crumbling. Trapped in airports. Necromantic

postcards read in the pathway   the jawless letterbox

the cat amongst the sage. Silver-tongued denial of wine

drunktext echolalia. Consider

the collection of desiccated flora: Banksia Baxterii,

Broom Bloom, gum leaves, linseed,

in a waterless vase.                           You didn’t say

take my hand. Please take my hand.

I would have.

 

II

These are dead. Why won’t you let me buy you new ones?

Taste was invented in the 18th Century.

How much does this matter? You keep a Huntsman

in a bowl of pinecones

as a pet.

Something flinches. Across the Domain, oracular,

red-beaked fountain birds. You used to work

in the gingerbread hospital, starched, ocular,

– near the blind fountain. Take me there! Let my palms spread

grip sides     eyeless barnacles on the flank of a whale.

(Cirripedia – curl-footed.) Feet

planted.                Brace.

I’m still waiting.

 

III

You made tea with lemongrass and mint. Leaves in the cup

anemones. Cooling with a kettle hiss,

the afternoon’s belly-up.

You crushed

green suede geraniums. (Remember?) fingers       pinken

– smell this smell this –

hair loose and grey in the herb garden.

Call the solicitor. Sign the papers.

In the background something

tops of hot glass pyramids? Fractals of an unseen

trunk. Something tidal on a gravel beach. Something

like a crumbling. The gate is closing

and they’re calling your flight.

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