A man stands on the corner of Swanston and Bourke

            plying his trade

which is not immediately clear to the observer.

            Perhaps he’s

selling something nobody knows they need yet.

            The observer

wishes to verify his or her own presentiments

            about how the world

operates in all its flawed and reckless applications.

            Nothing is

as it seems, nor as it actually wants to be,

            for example

the illusory nature of bricks and mortar, transitory,

            ephemeral as wind.

Air will last longer than this human achievement.

            In the contest

between ill-will and charity ill-will will win,

            the speeding car

will come off better than the hapless pedestrian.

            Only stone,

as an ambition, can approach any sense of permanence

            lying in wait

at the bottom of rivers, or the top of book shelves

            disguised as souvenirs.

The sun will continue to rise long after the extinction

            of our species.

That man on the corner with his basket of stones,

            still not sure

who he’s waiting for, what his trade is.