moley skin she calls it the small dunes of brown he reads as braille her
life this parched meant time tocks in the sunhot paddocks all those sheep
all those decayeds like a herd of hours and theirs rise up in her snorts in
sleep snake trails to the window glass her babies floating free of her
alone she reads pooh bear in a suburban house blue in a nightgown blue cats
at the window glass now damned cats the gardens smelling like shearing
sheds her nose sucks in the sweet air honey to pooh bear who goes there who
goes where a lifetime trail from womb to tomb interweaving the dunes the
valleys and irrigation of her body a life from midwinter 1944
and he has run down all alleyways in town and cities hidden in the doorways
stolen the milk from outside innercity flats cheerioed cops on their beat
before dawn in his trek home from barman of the jazz club still beating
inside the subtle sizzle of a zildjian the moody mute of his poetic lick
the diurnal beat of his factory life the nocturnal beat of his club life
the dancers and singers all his time whistling like a kettle inside the
kettle whistling to itself so of course he laughs gently at the picture of
her playing tina turner as she rounds up the sheep for shearing ah
songlines in their blood coming to this drop a fine vintage from midwinter
1944
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Andrew Burke Copywriting
[log in to unmask] Creative Writing
http://www.bam.com.au/andrew/ Editing
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