By | 15 September 2022

Feet tips no more
than rosebuds, skin
as thin as membrane.
Inside this newborn
ringtail pulses bitumen
warm from summer’s hell.
Gumnut eyes blind
black ears folded
there is no mother
now as threadbare
noose of tail lets go.
What am I to do?
Give milk, cup
it dry in muslin?
Head as a thimble
bowed as a buttock
that puce bruise
on concrete would
take just one boot heel
to end a vellum paper skull.
But I don’t, blister eyes
are blind to all universes
still as a baby’s fist.
I’ll mercy those who can
see frequencies in the light.
All the earth starts
as a wrinkle, a purse
of hope holding murmurs
contracting and unravelling
the strands of the day.
At some point I should
help, the argument
for life worming right there –
but what could I ever really do?
Put its soft wild
pound in my pocket?
Place its unlacing
song on my palm?

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