Poem

Angels are made from banksia. They are grown in Prague, are
Exported in all directions, and turn grey in air. They
Only fly in places where the ground is hard. If
You try to count them they turn into numbers. If
You try to call them they turn into names. They
Are not decorative at parties but illustrative, of Guernica, for example

It is a kind of sleep we must learn,
seasonal as spiders, our bodies
weights no web can hold.

sparrow strung up
one foot knotted
in an accidental
backyard trap

They are stored in a box,
jewelled eggs:

The lover who says I’m sorry, I just
don’t want you anymore.
I woke up and the light
had gone out.

Seeing people who remind you
just a little of the dead
is always mildly disconcerting –

something in the face, the gait,
the shoulders from behind,
those likenesses that don’t surprise

The sudden blush on us        you move
as wind sweeps across blue water
you move       the clouds

for C.                 
                                        d, undrilled
                                     rock
    Had it been
wanted                       how had  

High dungeon was a feeling I knew well
When mockery from men weighed on my soul.
As your Prime Minister I went through hell,
If I can say so without hyperbowl.

I am building my roof of turf   my peaty sheath
a coveted blanket   roll me up in it and I go out
like a light   like the wisp rising at night
that country people swear they see and steer clear of