today I've fielded
working class vernacular
of the fifties to
compare with the drug culture lingo
of the sixties
to write about diction differences
and their influence on plot lines:
time and space of one novel to the other -
real time, narrative time and plot time.
then I burped a 12 day old baby
over my shoulder
as I watched a
One Day International cricket game
with a two hour time difference
between where I watched
and where they played.
time and space are
tricky co-ordinates
even in terms of the question
that has bothered me so long:
when is the poem a poem?
perhaps poems
are dropped-off tails
that wriggle for awhile
from lizard-poets
who grow more tails
for dropping-off later.
time and space, fear
and loving - all expressed
in a momnetary dying wriggle.
andrew burke
6 October 2005
Mt Lawley
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