i.

pacific gulls carry tightly closed shells to a height then drop them to the rocks below I say I don’t not mind isolation I am introverted

ii.

my symptoms fall like plaster when the door is slammed my blood thick and slow like the tiger snake under the clothesline and the cold grabs my ankles of I tie the wind up in a tight bun at the base of my neck

iii.

stuck in the lift of the poem I forgive myself for devoting my life to not saying your name it’s like the fly that lands on nerve endings around my eyes and on my lip as I ride past the garbage and realisation hits the back of my throat

iv.

not reasoning curled foetal into a fist I have not put pen to pain for days of what we witness by a body of water swallows shiny blue-black rusty throat and face forked tail swift low over water single high-pitched whistle a valium yesterday for sciatica pain I haven’t had a valium since he got acquitted I want to write about birds only when every child is safe from those meant to protect them rasping crested terns mewing pacific gull silver gull’s harsh cry

v.

grass wrens are written and read about more often than seen you can write too many poems about writing furtive and preference for page movement and disinclination to publish

vi.

from the bird’s mouth mixed with vegetation the nests built in colonies along cave walls and roofs are made from saliva I found the nest on the nature strip bought it home placed a red egg amongst its curved twigs and glass fibres

vii.

cormorants are of the shallow feed on the bottom she is dead but I dreamt I had the key to her house sealed nostrils breathing openings at the base of the bill the new owner gave it to me under the eye the bill long sleek with a strong hook at its extremity they seldom raise their voices

viii.

I heard the tawny frogmouth’s slow low flight looked up from my elbows at the keyboard took photos through the flywire it froze looked part of the wattle tree big unthinking eyes know

ix.

the blinds gamble shuffle a shiver up close the dress murmurs shoulders of sandstone swallows spider-finger water a walk around deep stepping split palms of overturned cups pages flown the weight at the end of the pier what recedes into sleep belongs to focus waiting in hallways with hands of history’s unreturned house keys tiredness like the tide pulls me back the same story on repeat tangle of bedsheets and the chair holds your absence steady this is where I land on the page like a fly on food I bring all of my survival to what you consume smoke-flies and coins of rain

Image: Ivan Radic