Wandering

Wentworth Hills

we have legs
like these young myrtles
our forests are open
and easy to walk in,
we slip on the concrete
and trip on the lawns
our forests are not
so easy to walk in.

winter legs
are pale and young,
tiring on the slope;

but high on the far high hill,
there are many white, white
and dead white trees.

Fresh, We Promise

“Several tea rooms were built at the end of tramways which led from the city towards the Mountain.”
John and Maria Grist, The Romance of Mt. Wellington

in the bare, blind
warehouses of light
we skin the fresh fall;
peel back the sheets and
lay them in cushions of ice.

we offer a service of snow.
these homes of earl grey
are full stops in the sentences
of roads; flaking scones
and elegant cups of white;
not milk, a thicker shake.
we serve such powdery cream.

in the numb months
we arrange settings
for legless bodies; such thirst!
arms, eyes and noses: these
will be relics, a pipe or coin.
you can wear your own scarf
and weld an ornament to your car.
he’ll stride your suburb calling:
“we have the means to meet
the sky where she sits!”
he won’t lie down till
you curl up in bed
with your glowing man.

when the season steams
our silver is scarce; but
there’s always a southern
hermit in his cave, and
everyone has a price.
some argue we import
our weather from the south
or the high plateaus
of the Chinese;

all we can reply: “dip your nose,
read the blank page.
above all else: breathe.”

Screening Shells

we have harboured shy
in the fat depths; rolled
and ground our backs
and our fingers and our feet
into white dust
dressing the shore
where the waves
paw; now, view
our melting resurrection
pressed and splayed.
lost visions haunt
these screens;
we stand clear
like water.

Now the Pale Calling

the hour is sudden with cicadas,
today they are launching summer,
tiny ratchets winding up the sun as
the finches follow fences and plum pips
mutter underfoot; our birds are hiding eggs
as though the moon is full, their coop
unplaced by raw scratching; our logs
are still trees, unflappable and hearty
even as the wind has been cluttering
our streets, the rain clouding out
the careless heat.

in my sleep
a wide, white face beseeched me walk,
and then my throat was tearing
as my eyes betrayed the night.

now the shade blows cool
on my shaking skin.