we sit by the o
cean paddocks sipping moisture
from salty scars this is the blee
                                                               ding the in
terminable drift sourcewards by opening
the wet eye we
can leave the bushy one c
losed losen up read
        currents swells sand
        bank accumulation with
        confidence we turn back: an
cestral hints we're striding
inwards in
to the pasteofwhatwilldry to silt
ochre dust in your nails
scratching frying up the hurt the ants
swarm with shadows
                        attached the twine
of a thriving mosaic weaving
__in__out
                       of one another that
                                                      pale,
empty Sky:______
we sit and                             sing the drought
songless is the art this is
the art of a lost child                              (lost child)
trying hard to grow a new
mother        like                                        (new mother)
      wanting kisses on your cheek      (your cheek)
from lips too
                             old
to pucker.                                                   (pucker)