Poems
The Internet doesn’t tell me
where they’ve gone, my predeceased
contemporaries. It’s
a lengthening list though the more
Out on the viewing platform you look down,
From heights of sky
The wind-hit storeys try to scrape,
At this grand canyon of a cityscape
after Tom Roberts
Holding the ram in awkward embrace,
he comprehends gravity while watching
the shearers charge through their task.
He tells me a woman more exquisite, more exotic
than any of the luminous objects found in the zodiac,
will come into my life. Yasodhara, I ask? He stays
silent, turns to a farmer and tells him he’ll lose
legendary discovery by Sigismund Freud
(also known as Golden Sigi)
and
no other
But wait, there’s more – as when the hummingbird
flies backwards for the hell of it, or
the odd flamingo’s pinkened up by snacking
on blue-green algae. Aeschylus, potted
Empty for years, the house can tell us nothing.
Even though it is a maisonette, ostensibly half of a pair.
The other half is normal, inhabited, has a real dog.
Rubbish gathers here, junk mail overfills the letterbox and droops when rain makes it sodden.
