untitled

1 May 2018

I.

the idea of a productive morning          an ideal of productivity          a man walking on 

the beach in the early light                     I become a space into which his care pours   & 

so am lifted out of poverty          the family wander elsewhere          in the first home 

without others, a cactus bloomed in the backyard          a night-flowerer          & the 

noisy miners swooped the dog 	

II. in the sun reading about a winnicott case a boy who obsessively tied furniture to other furniture with string an attempt to ameliorate fear of separation, desertion you are a representative representing self & we are all bodies & desires pulling at chairs tethered with string
III. counting the days between letters small events take on too much meaning (perhaps others can smell this) the strangeness of this practice, the realisation that no one is keeping track that here one can do anything one wants around you I am inevitably trivial & thus strangely peaceful we reach for a device & form a window
IV. what was reserved & parched opens (a masculine-flowering) noting delicate acts on television I watch a man lift his hand from where he was touching a woman his hand is covered in blood she begins scrambling for the date his face softens with surprise that she contains such redness, such vitality another program & the most tender act I have ever seen on television: a man putting makeup on another man while they talk softly about their lives
V. I suddenly become afraid of losing my notebook, of losing track in the post you arrive surrounded by red, a fragile packet everything turns on a number & a series of arrivals, always delayed, awkward, charmless so I speak less & read more & with the dogs inhabit an unbroken weekday quiet on the bench they lean their dog bodies against mine scenting the air we consider the backyard and it reflects back to us green always more green our companions, a leaf-curling spider, the buzz pollinators & a magpie lark who walks the pool cover like a waterlily
VI. in the night vegetation is removed a sandstone wall is constructed to keep tides out of lounge rooms they've trucked in 
beach sand the environmentalist says it will only work for now there’s talk of compromise the casuarinas ghost & the commelina chokes garden beds I am struck once more by your fear of sentiment is the goal to write like you? to erase the self push up and up a relentless stripping
VII. today more reading: an author who says hugging a eucalypt is like hugging a horse’s neck I tried it, it’s true firm life against your cheek the other day I saw a journal that said no poems with birds I told the wattlebirds out the back they said fuck that I told the sky it said so much life against your cheek feathers cambium green blue




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