And can it be our voices need consoling,
well we only link our voices at footy,
guess he’d never been, corporate projection
while naive alveoli clutch each other;
there, a new tune circling, sacrifice your
skewed larynx to a set of organs preying,
howling at glass burned clear; where are the choir’s
eyes? noble chords gilding trudged axioms,
here among whoever we are, flapping still
with sweaty paper shields, dank numbers listing,
destitute lessons for those who would sing hymns.

Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places.

If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate.

Ben Walter is a Tasmanian writer of lyrical fiction and poetry who has been widely published in publications such as Island and Southerly. He has twice been shortlisted in the Tasmanian Premier’s Literary Prizes, and was the recent guest editor of Overland’s special anti-/dis-/un-Australian fiction issue.

More by