A block of greasy light reaches me

from the neighbour’s shed,

settles on the desk. 
I browse the keyboard

for words I have forgotten. I type

‘stitch’ and imagine skin. 
I copy down my steps

all night in the cold bedroom.

An hour

arrives and leaves. 
Now: noise.

What doesn’t sing has no right

to be awake in the shrieking

hour

of birds. 
Diamond firetail

gouldian finch mulga parrot

budgerigar—
Tree full of wagtail, myna, peewees:

native names I forgot,

learned on

hot days in state school

science class. 
I try to say my name aloud.

Instead, words I heard

when I was a ten,

tadpoles in a  bucket,

magpies pinch mince from

shaky hands.  
Dead yellow budgie

on the neighbour’s deck,

typed

in straight lines. 
I realise

if I step backwards

I will bump into myself.