for Doug


You aren’t supposed to name

the emotion in the poem, just

show it obliquely (poetically)

but will you take a look at that

mountain, covered in moss,

all mulchy with leaves, there

is slate inside it, there used

to be more, the river makes

a good sound, and everything

is either overstated (me) or

understated (Hemingway).

Whether or not the topography

of the landscape is interchangeable

with a woman’s body is, suffice to

say, his problem. I focus on the real.

It’s quite a sight, these mountains,

so much that after five weeks it’s a

given to me, though I can’t speak

more than one word of Welsh.

Thankyou is dioch and I can’t

remember the word for ‘cheers’.

I’ve never had a strong sense of

smell, where one might smell

‘mountain dew’ I smell ‘mucus’,

though I can tell when it’s raining,

and when the Thanksgiving turkey

is off, in the middle shelf of the

fridge semi-covered in cling film.

Anyway, the mountain. It’s covered

in pines planted in rows, some

patches have fallen over (been

lumbered?), some are so thickly

set they look like they’ve been there

forever, as if I’d know the difference.

They’re not really mountains

but I’m Australian. You should

see the café in Corris, Adam &

Andy’s, it’s the cutest fucking

thing, it is the best, it is in fact

the only shop at all, but yeah.