Archive
i.m. Bettina Gorton
i.
When I drive through freeway towns I look for you
in the sealed front doors of houses, turned away.
I look for you on the couch-grass lawns of February suburbs
between the privet hedge and standard roses with your back to the street.
When I come home from winter holidays I can tell you have been there
drinking window after window of light till it is emptied and grey.
I think once I saw you walking the curve of a disused rail line
where the track shrugged off its sleepers and climbed into the heat.
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