A breeze sneaks through my version
of afternoon, through the rumour
of stasis.
If there was every stillness to be had
I refuse to catalogue it.
The census says I have no religion
but life economic, an age still to market.
Archives will always insist there’s dying
that there’s some kind of quotient
and a kickback.
Smell the money in the air.
I haven’t come to terms with my ratio.
Out here I can smell someone’s roses
peeking through another fence
the budding of allotments and graves.
I tick boxes. It’s not a dream.
When I fall it hurts
and no religion is no cure.
Sometimes the breeze is furious
strong, wayward.
What is description but another emotion?
There is no truth like weather.
(I wrote a version of this a few weeks ago when we in Australia had to
fill in a census form. Just playing with the ideas again.)
___________________________________________
Jill Jones
Latest books:Wild Curious Air, Recent Work
Press.https://recentworkpress.com/product/wild-curious-air/
A History Of What I'll Become, UWAP.Shortlisted for the 2021 Kenneth
Slessor Prize for
Poetryhttps://uwap.uwa.edu.au/collections/poetry/products/a-history-of-what-ill-become
Viva the Real, UQP.Shortlisted for 2019 Prime Minister's Literary
Awards and 2020 John Bray Poetry Award
https://www.uqp.uq.edu.au/Book.aspx/1473/Viva%20the%20Real
I acknowledge the Kaurna people, traditional custodians and songmakers
of the land on which I live. Sovereignty was never ceded
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