Out from a line of fire,
into these entanglements
of coastal scrub,
this largesse of flower
branchline and shifting
abrasive light,
a dune bird stops its mouth
with a scribble of acacia pollen
and a potoroo grooms the flank
of its own standing shadow.
Here, in the scaled-down
topography of the moment,
in the economy of depth
a stroke of oil locates
on paper or skin -
those skylights into the head
the crafting of spittle
and blood has made luminous,
the puzzle and the broken code
of pure amazement
have taken root, and they are flourishing.
Out from a line of fire,
our bodies move,
and light is what we leave
in the essential landscape
of our absence:
a yellow-tailed black cockatoo
going out of its head,
a woman whistling
a mongrel from the surf,
and in the middle distance,
in sepia tones, a small marsupial,
removing a splinter of ash from its pocket.
Wednesday 11.06 am
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