Solitude goads the sun

across indelible flatness.

Forty degree heat

on the Mundi Mundi plain

can perish logic,

drain water cans.
Goannas gulp at insects

only they can see,

ants form a guard of honour

for a carcass

stretched out on the sand

bones picked clean.
Crows flap on a dry tide,

fire stoked clouds fumble

on the fetid pant of dusk.

In a nonsensical wander

of sun stroke

my gait is slow.
I have lost my dillybag,

hiking mate has disappeared.