On the Train to Geelong

By | 1 January 1998

The train pulls us along.
Who knows the difference between travelling
and waiting. The window
has a flat tawny landscape. Einstein
has the clock. Factories
muddy with rust and pastures fenced
by threads of sunlight tear
past our eyes. The posts and roads
running alongside the track
are too busy pacing us to wave.

Like blue mushrooms appearing overnight,
the huge bourgeoning You Yangs.

As their spore, the ash of stars,
we start speaking.

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