Junkyard King
Birds twinning
shadows of flight. In the distance
man has made an
arrangement of wings, always the jealous thing
götterdämmerung,
junkyard king.
In the twilight
colours spread into the skyline of your veins; a rose hanging there.
Cabbage palms raise
fronds for alms, fingers spread in luscious breeze
a kookaburra swings
on a bowed power line, flight tucked up in night.
Remember the boy
stuck in black, the purple of his eyeliner
not yet dirt beneath
his lids, his voice remains the pale heart of discord. In Wangaratta
the sugar cane, the
beat of wings, moult of nymphs
Echuca, Tatura,
Wangaratta. Tears,
a minor god in the
evening,
the fifth thing of
everything.
Cheers, Kate. Wonderful. Creepy. Hope to hear you read it someday!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Rob!
ReplyDeleteThis fifth thing of everthing really rings
ReplyDelete