for (but not to) Gig Ryan
You heard me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.

This town’s foliage

corkscrews down from trees that sound

a bit off. Gentles in a neat layer

writhe like a pullover

over what at a distance looks

crisply modelled.

Up close, the scalloped sails pullulate

with air gusts writhing.

But of course you knew what I was

going to say and didn’t have to pay heed.
Closeness cracks me up, it really does.

Eyes water and nostrils stream.

Buddleia brings butterflies across

the straits, and a sticky cloak of caterpillars

strips bark from dragon trees that weep

red blots.

Millions of bits of mirror

set in concrete beckon to the high cirrus.

No they don’t. If we weren’t so close

we’d have to face each other,

swarming across plenteous tiles.
Climate once mutual shrinks to its events.

Connectedness is

building a free state on pontoons

invisible from this wharf,

charging flakes of skin, fish scales

to overlay

paschal hordes showing up

obscurely furious. Words are spat

across the tresses of light breeze

a Koori boy puppets in, clothed

with tattoos of scabies spiralling at work.
I call him warrior and he trickles coin.

Here where paving is so thin if reticulated,

boots trouble the buried: re-

knit with aftershock as by the drop

of heavy fruit,

colonists paw at the straits high above.

They are wanting to shape up but

arise in glitter,

pegging out the foreshore in a seam

of gold studs. Take your hands

out of your pockets, stretch your arms.