green-headed haze
my taxi guy squares out
the suburb hop
winter removes some definition
like a memory
of green-headed hills
everlasting trees
(though they're going)
and ever rolling clay roofs
(a century of wide beige song
the lies of the commonwealth)
I ask him 'can we squeeze past this'
but he takes a new turn
past peak hour glue
I must remember that move
amongst it all
someone finds a new twist
through the state's
morning gridlocks
Jill Jones
Sydney 8.45am, Wednesday 20 July 2005
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