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.
1 November 2016