In Outback

1 November 2016

Heathen heat staunches off tar.
A pious and paunch house full
of February storms, canned goods,

a broken spring bed, haunch of father’s
static in the led paint. The wood
window frame can taste

of iron on a tongue. It is a breakwater,
a stanchion for an eye frantic for
framing. Methods of living bore

out in each stucco room.
Father bore heat better.

The dirt track nearby led to the sand
of a dry creek bed. Father once said
if you listen, when it runs,

at dead night you can feel.
I remember splashes of bats
squalling in the gums,

Great agglomerates, sinkholes
in pink skies.
In outback, houses like

tin souls, covered with skin
become rusty Rorschachs.

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