stepping out with all the serenity of

an electric-ended possum pelt,

standing in the shock of sun

coat coursing with energy, eyes

turned to the pale face of morning.

I look the day’s debut up and down

slide my snout along light beams to see

if they have anything in them

worth eating.

the corners are crisp and the sidewalks

semaphore, filled with fibre optic cable,

coy lines of code spilling skywards

and I am making fists out of street signs,

and water out of wine, if the moon

was my lover I would never be alone

I would just think I was.

in Otsuchi, there is a phone booth

where you can dial the dead.

kaze no denwa, the wind phone

carries your words on the currents

but air is not the same thing as breath.

on the corner of Stranger Street

I hurry into the booth, furtive

though there is no one else in need

of a pay phone at this hour – or maybe

ever, in Brunswick. I wonder

what stories the few people passing

might make of my hushed breathing

into the receiver, or whether they care

at all. mumbling into the ether,

under the rumble of morning’s

rubbish run, I tell you the story

of the tawny frogmouth owl

that followed me home.

when of course you don’t reply

I put the receiver down

and run.