Poetry

my little grandmother
knows no pain
she believes that
hunger—is food

[…]

That night I read The Revolt of the Masses not yet knowing
that at that same hour they
set houses on fire. They say,
an old woman tossed in flames trying

[…]

I breathe the leaves of the basil
It has news for me—
For all my senses

Alec, I said you’d be around
by stratagem or shift
looking for a lift
to the somewhere burial ground

Like wallabies we hurtle
This way and that
Unworried whether the world
Be round or flat.

A yacht lies down
in my window, on the harbour
the dusk has come.

Wake with a kiss on your lips.
The sun steps down through trees.
You sit in the corner of my eye
all morning, working on something.

Across three fences
the lights and noise of a party at anchor;
a paddock dusty
with stars; our lit-up talk
 forgettable.