The Grief Song of the Nesting Rufus Whistler the Day After the Lace Monitor Was Seen in the Eaves
As we take our tea
we marvel
at the complexity of the song
The house dinning like an aviary
reverberating with lyrics we
misunderstand
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March Heatwave
I’ve been noticing women’s toes. The neighbour’s lawn is a badly cooked naan bread. Someone should invent the opposite of a hot water bottle. We no longer have the right to colours. It is reflex to recoil from sour milk. I can’t remember his face: I would know it instantly. Silence like the dead air over the radio when the apprentice pushes the wrong button. Toss, tosser, tossest. Caught between reason and raison d’être. At what temperature is nakedness the answer… or is it always a question? I think of myself as a peccable woman. Do-si-do turn to your partner. Turn a cold shoulder, if you only could. Need to find a documented instance of pegs melting on the line. Skin parches under sweat. Mad as a March hare. March as a mad hair. American politics at 3 am must be in the small print of Dante. The smell of rot can rot. Edges are for falling over. Push me. Turn the wine back to water. The Joker laughs, Why so de-lerious? The crow cannot finish his last caw.
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And Coast
First you have to pass through the trees
At night in the headlights they frame urban
legends of escaped hook-handed criminals
Mist swirls
Then the forest is felled by open sky
but you cannot yet see the beach
Beach houses yes, of wood & outside stairs & verandahs
Up there: the views
But still you have to walk and crunch the grass
watched by a mob of kangaroos so habituated
they just as likely phoned-out for pizza
Walk on by
Finally, sand amongst the moons of marsupial poo
Ahead water inks the picture-perfect sweep
The big moon gilds the peaks and crests
To the horizon
You could stop where the fishermen cast their lines
The cold will bite your ankles, slap you back
You could stop or dredge abrading toes in wet sand
Or dive
And coast
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