Poem

An Oka kamikaze rocket bomb
Sits in the vestibule, its rising sun
Ablaze with pride.
Names of the fallen are on CD-ROM.
The war might have been lost. The peace was won:
A resurrection after suicide.

Writing a line, as if from bed, on a lovely, handmade

organ based on Gerald Murnane, the Goroke novelist

last seen pouring a glass of amber silk and swaying

imperceptibly enough to be called coincidental to Hot

As my plane drops down in turbulence

I think of you and of Salt Lake City,

I think of ice stealing over the Great Lakes

and of Omaha and of adamant plains.

Authorised visits,
temporarily easing Grafton Correctional Centre blues,
a young girl walks shadow-hardened corridors to see a black inmate,
observe her little brown fingers

Don’t feel sorry about it, if you remember
blue Darlinghurst nights like particular quilts
a generation of painters saw
before we arrived there, or found ourselves

We write about our existence pre-invasion / And that has made us visible
We write about our existence during invasion / And that keeps us visible

       walgajunmanha

                          walgajunmanha

                                                walgajunmanha

Who doesn’t love the portmanteau
for tangerine and pomelo, or more like angel,
tango, words for wilderness ...

In a hallway with the door open, a Honeywell T87 will attempt to
equalise the temperature of the continuous (available) world. It sits
between the mirror-dresser and the coat-hook which resembles two
of four talons of a lived-in bird, like a Fiji or an Imitator goshawk ...