A wife looks at her husband; a treefrog at a modem.
They view the bush from a comfortable position: enjoy wifi 
by the campfire like a Manet. Five years later the scene 
becomes unrecognisable. (May flocks of mosquitoes and other 
      blessings … But that’s no 
subject.) Suddenly, after pages of sympathy, to see a yam like 
an idealised bull pizzle. (Pizzle a word not often mentioned 
on the internet.) The paddock’s dry, the river flows into 
the spare living room. There are videos of thousands of 
birds avoiding each other. Why? Yet, a poem should not 
      resemble 
flora chatting at a party. Sometimes it’s hard to know where 
Australia is. Am I that snakeskin? Or the wind that tweets 
of conformity? I’m searching for your ghost name in quote marks
your picture, your catchphrase, the trace of your body lures me
on, we are heading further away from the town, the road 
is narrow, winding, leaf litter everywhere. I’m clicking on life 
      guards
but the air con’s unresponsive. I know there’s salt in the 
creek: a pink cockatoo’s spitting popcorn at the window. Should 
      fences 
keep vagabonds out or in? Beware a flash cattle grid: cluey 
trolls will tuck up their swags and roll right over it