Hell Opens

By | 1 April 2010

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.

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