Blue flakes are falling on the tents and the tongues

of the kangaroos. It becomes white on contact. It

becomes warm. It’s one of the magics of the Monaro

of Kosciuzko. My arm and hair are one with the

kangaroo tongues. The tents are dripping. The sky
        whitens the land as the land blues

        the sky. That’s the feeling we

        have in the jeep. Flakes silt the

        tussocks and yams and ash trees

        they Xmas the briars, if you’re

        that way inclined: Chicago the

        koalas; well we make do with

        possums. I wear a red parka as 
I run at the barbed wire fence and veer left like

a boomer. And whinny in the confusion of the

metaphor party the weather invites. When I’m

older I’ll catch Istanbul sky in my hands like music

and wear a trench coat like an extra from another 
        era – of Sydney – where they

        only know of analogies. Here

        we have no light only pieces

        of the universe and bread. The

        tents have left. The gum leaves

        are clean as rifles. When you

        put that piece of Europe in your

        hand it’s your hand. I ride a white
horse as well as a wombat; I drive a white car

like a Fred Williams dab. We’re running deranged

on the fields of Bega, little white-arsed flies for

the most part and I put my face in yours. The mud

makes us shitty/happy. You put your face up in 
        the air like a kangaroo with a flat

        tongue out for sugar, their subjectivity

        gone haywire like the time there

        was grass in the chocolate cake:

        we just wanted to make it sound

        nice, like Berlin. Everything’s

        dual, everything’s a Hereford.

        A blue haiku sun shines down.