1.
The cone roosts

in the tree. The sky
responds with blue.

The radio crackles
and the pundit says

we get what we
2. 
deserve, electing

a crowd of daleks 
with their rind and their

heart of imagination
and a vocabulary limited

to a single word.
3.
Each Louis turns up

its half dozen pins
guillotined by air.

Such a thin moment
is forgotten, says

Luce reading Martin.
4.
Two coins rest

in a weathered palm 
while rain

pocks the grey earth
and a sprout pushes

through the soil,
5.
emerges between

the large toe 
and the next, uncurls.

This is not imagination
but the green kidney

in its pod, the stalk
6.
beneath the clothesline

and, in the overhanging 
banksia, a shriek

when the wattlebird
knows the cone,

knows the tree.