dark of the dark
dark of the moon in the dark

of year, somebody in a Subiaco

subway chanced it, ended up with water

up to their windows, winds tip houses

up-side-down, send them along water

courses, people wake up sailing

in their beds
my two year-old grandson says he’s

busting, I take him, sit on a stool in front

of him, hand on his waist, he looks at me

sighs, asks about the pipe leading from

hand basin, I explain – water goes down

the plughole, into the downpipe, up over the bend

through the wall, continues along the side of the house

under the paving, then into underground tank near the

rocks where he was playing

we both sit quietly, then he points to the pipe, says

say again, so we both track a slug of water three more times

I’m finished, he says, leaving nothing
when the other perceives me, it’s in reflection

so she’ll collect that scrap of something left

in a dream, tiny short sound vocalised in the

root of throat just as body lifts into first

moment of sleep
she was the only one listening as I gave birth, she

was busy dividing the dawn light

in the mirror opposite, impossible

to tell if I was labouring in or colour grey scale

she ushered in all the visitors, told me

to refuse to make them tea, but I’d lost

too much blood
she walks on the other side of all the aisles

I walk down, has already touched every book I choose, writes

me page after page but they always get waylaid, she

charges the air with patience, counsels my impatience
what did you expect, she asks,

braiding the grass with her toes, I say

I wanted to wind up in a lagoon, things settled, everyone

to get out of their nautical beds, find somewhere

to hang their sheets to dry, expect to finally be able

to translate frantic signing of the trees in the wind, for

somebody’s, anybody’s, wish

to arrive