smoke illuminates what it cannot define
as it rises from my fingers,
measured darkness filters through the sky’s
focussing lens, the same night forever coming,
a sleepwalked path to the alleyway
preserving my footprints, chemicals slash
at unravelled membrane,
all is stilled on the farm but noise that prises
the air apart.
inside, my mother is crying,
cradling a child’s bones in her arms
after he was found matted across
the concrete beneath the tenth floor
of a building in the city.
she calls to me and I remember.
sequences of flood enter the night:
in my lap, my arm is a cratered and faceless
moon, marked by explorers who’s knives
are carried territory, pushed through
the waking universe as softened lines,
aimless attempts at change landing
only meters from the earth.
the weightless breath
embeds on my chest and pulls forward
the old dream of reversal, regret
stitched into stars igniting the galaxy
above the paddock.
laying across the world I realise
I have destroyed my life.
Taken from my collection Rain Season (Picaro Press, 2013)