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
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
but the air con’s unresponsive. I know there’s salt in the
creek: a pink cockatoo’s spitting popcorn at the window. Should
keep vagabonds out or in? Beware a flash cattle grid: cluey
trolls will tuck up their swags and roll right over it
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