Published in Overland Issue 245 Summer 2021 Poetry Collecting brown matter in lockdown as the climate warms Anders Villani This was at the outset of adorable years The earth loved us a little I remember. —René Char, ‘Évadné’, translated by Mary Ann Caws When the rain lets up, we drive around, pulling over here and there to stuff linden leaves in black bags. It’s not a competition to see who can fill theirs fastest, or who can file their nails on the kerb the most fabulously, or whom the escaped centipedes in the car will favour. It’s just you and me driving in circles on the brink of our given radius. A moon of compliance, at apogee. We’re heating the cigarette lighter. Why are we heating the cigarette lighter? For the same reason your skin is the colour of a leaf I can’t imagine. The mycelial networks in the soil you call to. Call empires. The glacial in your smell. The ships of camels I dream of turning back before they run aground and become culls. Creeks run around rocks, root boles. Can’t we speak around viruses? The ’90s: Crocodile Mile—dish-soaped tarp on the lawn, the open jaws bellied through at splashdown; leaded fuel; AU Falcons; Rage not airing clips with lingerie-clad bodies, or death themes. How afternoon hogged the ball then. Driving around, we pass a girl standing across the street from a house I bet is her own, from parents I bet are waiting for her to slink into punishment’s earshot. We pass her again: the way she secrets both hips behind a plane tree with dagger leaves and just peers, as if ownership were lamplight yet to fill a room. As if the cigarette lighter were a planet, ringed by sun, cooling in our hands. Let’s agree we’ve been this girl to each other. Let’s decide whether to brand each other is to caress. Glitter under our nails, we stuff plane leaves in black bags, drive around. Around and around. Do you get the sense we’ve run this script figureless times? Are centipedes wild lips? Maybe forgetting is impossible after all, and this is the old springtime. Read the rest of Overland 245 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive Anders Villani Anders Villani holds an MFA from the University of Michigan's Helen Zell Writers' Program, where he received the Delbanco Prize for poetry. His first book, Aril Wire, was released in 2018 by Five Islands Press. He lives in Melbourne. www.andersvillani.com More by Anders Villani 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. Related articles & Essays First published in Overland Issue 228 16 December 202225 January 2023 Poetry Poetry | Wombats shit candy Michael Farrell To avoid treading on a snake, I stepped on a land mine. Did this really happen, in my dream? No. Is it a fiction, then? Yes and no. The time I spend looking for socks is insignificant: lie, irony, or philosophy? Wombats shit candy. Joke – hallucination? This is in fact a truth claim. My poems: litanies of truth claims. 1 First published in Overland Issue 228 14 December 202225 January 2023 Reviews The moral risk of taking things too seriously: on Gareth Morgan’s When A Punk Becomes A Spunk Elese Dowden In his review of Lucy Van’s The Open, Gareth Morgan writes that Van writes 'against the impulse to ponder dutifully about the sins of the past and present.' This fucked me up for some time. What is it to ponder dutifully? But perhaps more importantly, how do we ponder in a way that's more … metal?