I am young but I have money like a grandmother.

Do you remember seeing that paleface for the first time?
Yes, no. Face is trying for openness,

passing anti-expositional afternoons.
Fieldwork is a bound time.

I am designing an entrance, I am choosing to use it. 
Youth here sometime tastes of sitting-down.

On the any-way road, the cab thick with tail fat. 
Spider is needing that half-kilo of sugar.

We don’t ask it back just because we gave it away. 
When we are needing sugar we yell suga-suga!

Age here sometime tastes of exhortation. 
Can I Can I Can I? And rarely no,

but the face can shut down.
These are bright days.

I’m saying that literally, 
and actually, Can I? is a pale formulation.

Say it in a sing-song, get that sugar back. 
Sometime bodies are needing food or money.

They are walking to the fire, they are yelling the noun. 
Sometime a noun and I don’t want to give it.

Twenty-dollar, fifty-dollar, ten-dollar, jerry-can,
Nungarrayi, power-card, Nungarrayi, those kids

are hungry for pizza, drink, lolly-lolly. 
I am asking my questions and the answers are any-where.

I feel burned and I give it away,
watching something stirring. Tinned things stirring.

Face is close to the fire. 
Wince is a face word. Singe is a hair word,

pale sensibilities hungering the exit. 
Try to cool out in the ingenious windbreak.

Eating Spider’s killer next to the car-body. 
Obligation is total.

No sorry for a face with its eyelash singed white, 
because under the blankets and microwaves,

bodies of a scorched story are not saying no.