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.
