There’s liquid water on Saturn’s

moon, plumes vent from its south

pole. We’re waiting for somebody

to crawl out onto the reflective

tectonically deranged terrain,

hoping to nail God to dark matter.

Wherever you live, First Peoples’

painted faces search for evidence

of a collective past. In town halls,

hard edged abstractions of sacred

ceremonies hang on whitewashed

walls. Your migration occurs an infinite

number of times. Hordes of lachrymal

ancestors walk from communal fires

to factories. Natives are made

on process lines. Metal ores burn,

metal feeds metal—in overtime to zero

hour—the language of solidarity, brutal

upper hands, and visceral fictions.

There is a restlessness in you. Wrestle

your dialect to the ground. Wake

from the dreaming—of Sicily,

of San Vito, martyr, patron saint

of the ancient port.
Here is the outline of a forest,

the ghost of our Californian Bungalow.

I catch white butterflies in plastic

bags and pin them to a tree (of symbols).

Tell me it’s cruel, animals grieve too.

How many silences, how many memories

hide in a butterfly’s wing?

It’s the third house in the subdivision,

where you improvise and merge

into Colonial farmhouse vernacular

and announce, I’m going to die here

like an old dog, under the kitchen table.

We worship at the altar of David

Attenborough, laugh at old ideas, dream

of UFOs and life on other planets. Watch

the replay of the ‘incident’. A faceless man

wears black trousers and a white shirt,

holds shopping bags in each hand,

stands before a column of tanks.

He looks like you from behind. Tell me

there’s nothing to fear. A powerline

snaps in the windstorm, pours white

electricity into asphalt. Call the fire

brigade even though there isn’t a fire.
I will crack this dream wide

open. I see your ephemeral wonder.

A disembodied voice announces Alpha

Centauri C, the brightest star,

is gravitationally bound to two

other stars, but appears as a single

star to our unaided future eye.

On the East side, plough your farm,

on the west side, the Californian Bungalow

looks like a church, the octagonal spire

drops dead butterflies on me.

The blending of senses—Listen

to the colour, smell the Sun,

taste the viscous wind

through the leaves, formless

shadows of time itself—then a mouthful

of your Mediterranean Sea.

The Californian Bungalow stands

on the frozen edge of ancient

Enceladus, ninth moon of Saturn.

The new suburb sits in the crater,

liquid water beneath the ice, fracturing

with the strain of time

and tides. This is your best year.

You are the traveller, the immigrant

again—full of knowing.