The venetians creak – fog’s tonnage. Condensation gasps on glassy corners, gloomy Xmas dec. The butter’s thickened in its crock like dripping. A constellation of barbed starfish rises from the mug of tea toward the ceiling shooting watery cannonballs intermittently as Hippolytus de Marsiliis’ fingers. The iMac, too, is punctuated, each poorly catalogued knuckle eroded
like an Apostle by my salt. Only I, oddly overlooked, am hardhearted to this seasonal affective disorder.
Stuart Barnes’ poetry has been exhibited, anthologised and published in journals, newspapers and online. He’s currently editing two chapbooks, and writing his first novel. He lives in Melbourne.
© Stuart Barnes
Overland 205-summer 2011, p. 75
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