old jam tins are sleepers in a rubbish dump
a scarred hollow of digging, even
before the rust came, the yard had a kind of design:
trees as old as frost, melon sky at sundown
a coattail earth of flax and ants navigating
sound before the paddocks came
ordered out on finance plans they cuddled children
with their debts. he drew fear from flood and seedless
sun. she traded contradiction for curves and valley
hips, verdant sod of earth, reckless drift of goats.
when the bailiff came, the end of lamb and beef,
she clung to rock and let the salt erupt from hands
and tongue the way the body bleeds its bitterness.
he roped a bulky contents under tarp,
sped through every gate, clouding exile
and the bright disturbance of his wheat
here on this white paper words rim
the borderline of their passion
it moves in some direction to inhabit lives
as couplets of unknown pain.
poems cannot see collapsed hearts
fresh wounds, first rage, so in here
their darkness spills on fingers to form silence
like a letterbox, where only the clouds go by
no matter what comes
she will mingle and clap silently...
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