The way a lighted

late sky over suburbs

causes pain in the body

occurs despite its being

nothing to do with us, just

light and a particular

density of gas. Like God

it is unphotographable.
The hurtling empire

of cars, trucks, petrol pumps,

become toys. The smallness of the

all-night self-serve glow,

tin cup rattled

among timpani.
Back when those signs still said

Westpac Handyway, I was sixteen, I would go

to the park at dusk to cry, lie

on my side beneath great elms

that had turned to felt and silk

in the softness, the Red

Rooster sign just come on. I

was a toy, too – one night

a group of boys sent a comrade

to sneak behind me, shout

suddenly. I leapt, they

howled.