By | 1 May 2020

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.

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