in foetal shapes
the ribs of a live one
spinafex plane
from peak to horizon
wishing god were real
pulling on
the smell of campfire
first light
choosing stones
hoping not to throw
town dogs
knowing the unsaid rule
tasting the mess
in her cooking
starting to see the truth
in her accusations
campfire smoke
having not reached
this desert waterhole
the fear of humans
quiet sounds
of men in darkness
mice fill the flat
spider from the night
here is your house
blowing in wind
more blue sky
the desert turning
back to desert
too vast
to feel a part of
western desert
knowing the mice
will still come
kitchen cleaning
red desert dust
fills the wind
fills the streets
No comments:
Post a Comment