I heard phrases I don’t recall having heard before
when pied butcherbirds sang outside my sleep
of a morning as indefinite article. Still troubled
by the behaviours of a friend when we were
catching reflections off a deep sacred lake
thirty-six years ago, I also recall the company
of another traveller on the run from a terror cell.
I am searching for the songs of those sun reversals
and lament my presence, that breakdown of learning.
Read the rest of Overland 243
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