By | 1 November 2019

The two of us ten and shirtless on a white quartz slope.
Chalkdust and sweat crumb our backs like a schnitzel.
The horizon is the furthest thing from us but we go there.
It will be ten more years before a sand filter breaks.
There is no need for shoes but we wear them to death.
We peel and burn and peel and burn.
Growing new skin that seems to get thinner.
My fear of snakes is Born This Way™.
There used to be houses on all of these streets.
It is cheaper to crush a weatherboard shell.
White stucco hinting at a kind of permanence.
We broke the bomber shield with a single rock.
Pieces of space lay spread across cages.
The centre of town is filled like a ghost.
We stand just like children at an empty intersection.
Three hours of daylight go by without movement.
Twisted fingers help us to find exits.
Past the roadhouse, toward the other horizon and farther.
I have never been back there, there has been no reason. But
Google Maps keeps me dreaming of formative plants:
Saltbush that grows in picturesque dryness.
Eucalypts that are older than my name.
The Money Tree we hid beneath in 40-degree heat.
Pants ankled. Stroking what little was down there
With boyish fingers and black crow quill.

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