Displacements
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- a week of conversations in Sydney, and elsewhere
Every day is impossible
I struggle with the outline.
My skyline still breathes, white haze so close, such distance.
You ring me ... a fortress or a party?
your joke ... as if we could decide.
Gutterals, street rhythms the slippery glab of stones in mouths.
Dusty trees shiver in dark
strafed by day, waiting for it to happen.
The prophets of the morning tag and count in other cities.
Silver clouds, heights and tiny cracks
craters in the midst, holes made by language.
Here we wait, rainclouds, offshore breeze
another boat is sighted.
We are not one, these streets - if we are many … stones, underground.
This cruel movie deal topples -
we die in rehearsal.
We were talking ... speaking ...
or listening to what? The nag of posterity?
You are packing the jeep, deep
and heading for the pale yellow distance.
We enter ... the stages where each word will be stolen.
Never the sum of our parts still drafting other selves.
I still see us - lounge lizards in the wastes
drinking green cocktails of lost time.
This time ...
Elvis has left the building.
God bless the veil
of dust.
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