Wadjemup

2 February 2001

Something comes out of nothing
across the water
on days when I am
clear
about sound, touch, a sharpness of taste as
external.

I mount the ferry, dramamine—s cradle —
passage paid this side
of the river.
Arrival is
rope cast and pulled, green light skin, sun
fal-
ling
sixty seconds behind Tuarts.

Slopes crowd:
rumour, myth, the dead —
evidential occasions of
intoxication, olives,
the Mediterranean (architecture),
water catchment, purification, lenses and
fishing —
at least there is fishing.

I am
familiar with
the physics of hook and lure,
dynamics of reel,
knife and gut,
descaling, the need to extract
every bone —
mortality axis at this
point.

Clearly
a salt signature is external,
the voice of sea, tide and sand;
clearly internal
the sound of
a key dropped outside
a cell, the door
closing.

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