By | 24 September 2002


Not really equatorial – in fact
not at all, but distinctly northern,
and seeming twice as close
as the city I call home, houses
weatherboard and colourful as beach
houses carved in the mountain,
sunset soon after 4
(being on the wrong side)
the smell faintly tropical-
the overhang a more sickly green.

(And the cat vomiting snake,
though this isn't really latitudinal,
simply a result of undergrowth.)


Road are like veins. That's
what they say, right? Like veins
that crisscross, that lead to and away
from the heart. Or maybe like stitches
instead. The roads are like threads
finely stitched into patchwork,
slightly frayed where different thicknesses
pull. The contours of roads
are like clues: tattoos on the body.
I piece them together-villages
strung in a row. Like a quilt
that unfolds (light fabrics only-
the heat leaves no need for
fireside quilts) it all lies
before me: the roads are like
seams too fine to unpick. Surely

someone went blind for this city.

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