BLUE HILLS 51

From a place deeper than the larynx
the voices of Tibetan monks
broadcast into the gallery cafeteria
as an undertow to all that is available:
the harbour, arrayed for delectation outside,
a crane above it like a John D Moore painting
(blue letters on the counterweight spell GREED).

*

A southerly, off Botany Bay
moves the palms in a backyard
at Hurlstone Park
chimes hang in the air
talking wind
spiky fluttering
of the natives
all modulation and
cracking branches
then the riff
of the Bankstown train
shadowy behind
dark timber.

*

Nearby shops fall into decrepitude
as the centre of gravity moves
to the new strip:
my former city remade
as a remote configuration,
its familiarities stars
in shifting nebulae,
a body recomposed to perform
different tasks. The burden
of memory is drawing
the same old figures,
earlier lives, disjunctions
fused for a moment
in broken light.

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