Bleach & blow-dry sand supports an argument
between three ageing Macedonians.
I join in, the subjects are important –
politics & water temperature.
The sky refuses to take sides.
So near the airport, fish stare up at the planes:
they are the stars under adamance
for all those furtive lives amongst the hooks.
This bay goes all-ways
& I am stationary, fixed upon
the myths of departure & flight.
There’s turnoffs just south a bit – Canberra, Wollongong.
As a ketch absconds towards the sea
busses offer Dolls Point & Sans Souci.
My bicycle has reluctantly taken me north from Cronulla –
these things like dogs take on their owner’s appearance –
loose screws & rust, a pitted grey writes notes at the sky.
My faith is a thorn, intent as gulls
I feed on other lives, wrapped just in an old laugh.
This emptiness, the loss of shadow
& cantankerous memories crowd the bikelane.
Back home there’s money matters, a skittery dialogue
with a neighbouring cancer &
the computer’s sober judgements of me
after wagging work all morning.
None of this is enough, I always argued with gods.
They should stop their stubborn shine –
edges have sung at me for years, I’ve seen
colours you wouldn’t believe, my hurt filled the balloons of shame
to pass as an excuse. This is now a little world comprised of
cotton shorts & dabbed sunblock.
Perhaps if we all took it as plenty
there’d be the air to save.
I’ve got to stand for something
& this will do.