pinned into my stomach, the wound
slowly heals, sadly
here in the summertime, a rusted nail
creaks beneath my flesh
scratched along the unnerved skin
this cycle bores me
heat batters the windows
still tired, serene daylight bent
against the encroaching frost
even when it is bright a charcoal
cloud grows and rains falls from
somewhere within
sweating against the inferno of sun
cant wear shirts anymore.


How I feel about living here

back at the farm after days away
my father is in the shed mixing feeds
tearing open crude bags of mince.
the breath of dogs swoop through wire
and gather the scent at the forefront of bars,
bodies unfurl in kennels. the warm pressure

dusk descends over the paddocks
the wind cutting through the tin
creating a breeze inside. his hands skirt easily
across the surface of the table.

this image- of dad opening the freezer
over and over sprinkling the kibble
into the mixed bowels then into the kennels
is one I know well. why am I still-
his body turning backwards
at my presence and walking straight up to me,
blood still dripping from his fingers-
I love all the things I hate about being here.


Bringing in the Greyhounds

walking out to the runs

the dogs have been waiting for you

they bark at you and hope you pick them first.


poet's biography ->