impulse is to jump over. De Sausaure said
as much: the Sign is a signifier.
Between the double, the single
and the dotted lines, we drive up
and down the highway, reading
the language of short signs
and translating the body language
of fallen animals. A wallaby, fox
and wombat. The council writes its code
in spring yellow, council gardens wither
in the first heatwave. Esoteric knowledge
creates them and us. No season has
long service leave. Who writes
has a plan: who executes has a duty.
‘You Are HERE’ says the tourist
information sign. This old town has
its own babble and squeak, from the foul smell
of the piggery up one end to the sweet smell
of processed oats up the other. In the main street,
between empty dusty window fronts,
is a sign faded in the sunshine: Room To Let.