Krebs Cycle

By | 1 May 2018

At the point of dissolution, I was wrong.
Anne Elvey

More augur and sere, bloodwood trees raft a mirage
Ahead in the road, a harrier resting on air is breve
not oracle, just resting on white sky filled with heat

Cicada’s rhythm shifts down from sharp staccato
to a dirge, until the whole world falls silent, as though
something has stepped too close and threatens

Tripping a shift, reek of dead kangaroo is its’ only ghost
Our eyes skulk, shadows creeping through shadows
openly flat and shockingly real. This isn’t poetry

You want me to slow down, I want to write to the quick
Space cleared overflows with another, some swarming
ant-like to the rotting eye of a trammeled snake

Tourists come in thousands to see Everlastings quicken
and end in pulsations of wind. Vans wall the highway
Define foreign, the tongue that will say it is your own

There seems to be no grass, until, while you’re not
looking a brushfire explodes and takes what you hadn’t
seen, leaving a smoulder, continuous and petering

In a roadhouse called Last Resort / No Man’s Land
a caged bird swings its legs above its head, ratchets upright
to drag its beak along the wires and a kid dances with it

A newspaper is splayed to a clipped story of the dingo
whelping its own death, poison grafted to a day
two years in the future and its’ dull rupture

Landscape re-mapped by jutting elbows of cats crouched
over blue wrens. No one here calls this place mythic
Voices buried by sound of passing trucks

A controlled burn somewhere and I wonder how much
smoke it takes to cover an ocean. Over the road, two
girls with clipboards measure fuel loads by the acre

Soothsay and spate, as a child finding a natural
clearing in the forest, ground blue with radiations
of Leschenaultia, electric as mirrored sky

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