Lo Lo at the door, her big eyes blue to bursting through the threshold of the simple house at 108, and billowing fabric, a train of electricians in her wake. ‘La Loïe’, receptive to fancy, desired luminous wings of radium, had read a story in the paper of the couple

There’s a lot of things I don’t care any more Calling me ‘Yu Ouyang’, for example Putting me under ‘Y’ in a bibliography, for another Accusing me of writing in a ‘sloppy’ way

West of Katoomba on every bit of your brakes ent’ring dubitable wine country. Wellington Kirkconnell Lithgow Bathurst prison country central New South Wales.

when the orderly comes to take the tray of sandwiches Dad can’t possibly eat I am compelled by an impulse to eat the sandwiches and also to catalogue them for a later poem that I know I will write / here is the poem 20 months later