On the run from the W.A. police, her faking German accent

could be someone else: embassies [snapshot] in their circular

drives, late night music. Claus plays haus in Canberra,

surrendering to the domestic obscene. She home hones

in mu-mu when home so foolish, stretches her long legs

to admire shell pink toenails. Claus is punk hausfrau who only

just makes code. Still the morning deflate.

Before this rapid joy in sunglasses, remote mutes happen

in a box. Did you say instant? On the opposite side

of the lounge they have closed the borders to Europe.

Claus works the images, kills the sound. Prone and sensitive

before afternoon soap, that cool ex-wife, next-wife plot

creates such cosmetic intersect. All goes quiet, actors tho’ and

monstrous nobodies. Sound down politesse: each listening

elsewhere. Why we feel torrent almost tolerant. Outside

the wind freshens to mass moist air above the continent.

Though as a rule clouds avoid this place. Elsewhere

is mayhem in what should be Spring. Where’s the hope,

where’s the promise? It’s a disaster end to end, and everyone’s

muscling up, muscling in.

                                             What really interests jostles her. Pause

and stretch: jigs, cutouts cutaways and reveals to that soft

unused skin. Could they be implants? Now she is sell, the soft

sell. How did it go so wrong? Inside the cage, life hardly moves

:toy truck, broken glass, rotten goop that is so sub-urban

:she’s been here long enough waiting at the zoo with the other

animals. Claus remembers the different pleasures of kissing a man

with three days growth and of a woman.

This is big. She feels irresponsible. Forget the future, un-imagine

a past, there is only here Ground Zero where she rents the view.

What did Little Gidding say about ends and beginnings?

The landline rings. Overhead a helicopter hovers, and out on

the street the police negotiator leans over the roof of his car.