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An elemental cycle of weather, memory, and dream—these poems trace Tasmania’s winter and summer in stark, sensory incantations.

A tender morning vision captures love, longing, and the fragile beauty of shared intimacy.

A descent into psychological torment, The Game traps the narrator in a nightmare of temptation, manipulation, and self-destruction.

Bereft after my trek, I go home / look at a mirror, examine / all the blemishes, wrinkles / age-ravaged markers on my skin…

“They walk, the drops falling / like punctuation / on their decisions.” A quiet confrontation with truth, where rain doesn’t cleanse—it reveals.