31 July 2012

Territory is suburbia is an atlas of orange-bricked battlelines.
Where driveway mouths spit mortar like broken teeth and cold wars cauterise domestic skin.
This is where I have mapped you.

                                              mango pulp
                                              bruise-lidded sky
                                              a storm hymnal

When the sky bleeds out of this heat blister, it will wash away nothing.
Passionfruit will lay defeated by the fence. Territorial birds will remain the aggressors.

                                              noisy miner
                                              mynah bird, mickey
                                              flick-flit dancer

I meet you at your depth and let your breath push blood around my body.
We make an ampersand of arms and legs and you whisper “this is not a safe distance”.

                                              first star
                                              cicada thrum
                                              open-mouthed kiss

I remember thinking that forever might feel like this – eyelid-crepe delicacy (my lips),
ear lobe softness (your teeth).
A cup of tea gone cold beside my shoes.

                                              lights off
                                              snap-blink greyscale
                                              lips to cheek to neck to lips

Somewhere, a casement window bangs.
First I taste blood then the thick blade of storm-metal.
In the kitchen, AM radio makes leaf-litter conversation.

                                              second innings
                                              last session before tea
                                              willow-faced tock

You leave the garden hose running in the afternoon rain.
Yesterday, curled up in the letterbox.
Leatherwood pleasure is folded in a pocket, in a dovecote, in a crowded space.

                                              rain comes
                                              arrhythmic shrapnel

                                                                                            rain goes

Territory is suburbia is an atlas of orange-bricked battlelines.
Where cyclone wire fences protect us from nothing.
Unsolicited mail keeps coming.
I can always find your hand in the dark.

                                              cane-toad skin
                                              bitumen bite


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