I
We bundle up our ulcers

accumulated in domesticity’s

damp and private grotto

& lug them dutifully on our frail backs

as we fly hand-in-small-hand above the Tasman.
II
The texture of this headland, as luxe as thrush at dawn.

The fractal bloom of unquiet thoughts,

garrotting the navigation of sky-tearing

peaks. The tent has become

a surgically constructed empire,

worthy of assembling and dissembling,

cavities and ecosystems.
III

Fossicking for an ethereal dosage

potent enough to mute memories

of all that has sprouted,

unwanted and wild

in the humid undergrowth

of years.