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.
Very fine.
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