now gone to seed,

looking for all the world 
like aureoles around streetlamps—

you are a hair’s breadth
from a thousand decapitations;

ghost-heads floating on eddies of air.
I mistake you for a miracle

when Australia needs one:
starry constellations waiting to be born

in waste ground or the craquelure of concrete,
marvellous as shoots

on the charred limb of a tree.