The Snow

1 February 2014

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.

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