Lark and rose go mad, even with winter
coming on, the garden beneath the verandah blooms,
the park is dense with sun and soccer balls.
By lark I mean generic bird, God knows
Reading physics in the Charger
at North Bondi; after a while
it gets hard to concentrate.
All that sunlight.
Twisted body silhouetted
in a flood of summer light
he seems incongruous down here.
Pass unseen through a godforsaken floodplain,
city of treachery, siege and publishers.
No backbone here at all, nothing to fight,
or with. All sunken in unmerciful decay.
First I think of Jesus, or not actually Jesus,
but the vapour trail from a jet, which makes
a line across the hard sky parallel with the top
of my window, which makes me think of Apollinaire
In the yellow time of pollen, in the blue time of lilacs,
in the green that would balance on the wide green world,
air filled with flux, world-in-a-belly
in the blue lilac weather, she had written a letter:
The snowlines, moving in, and light failing fast
as aurora borealis throbs there like a walrus heart,
all the land so wide, so all around; so vast as to
haunt. Mythology, the oil flares far away. Lightning
In the dead of night in the dead of time
the private creatures nibbled, milky under moonlight.
Not a pine needle dropped. A salmon pulse throbbed muted
The leaves are budding on the trees. The buds
are popping everywhere. Spring as in spring in the step
makes sense. In Paris there is the dead of winter
as in you think of death as in great boats