Fog over Brunswick’s uneasy marriage
of graffiti and trams, bubblegum
flowers and wattle jostling for the first
sun, the whiskers of an inattentive man
scattered over a sink, how he looks
like me but more bereft. My bags
are unpacked in a way that speaks volumes.
There is a dog, and there is a siren.
They fall, They fall, in my head for no
good reason. The day refuses to spell
itself out. It might yet be a word like
acacia, chaos, or accord.
I dreamed of blue parrots and a mountain
thick with orchids. The shutters unfurled
morning piece at a time. Your back grew
goosebumps where I touched it. Downstairs,
the washing machine rattled like a tram
and the trams contemplated what this meant
for everything they took for granted.
Summer seemed a metaphor for something
else, and joined the trams for a dose of
psychotherapy. I waited for a hangover
that never came, whistled a song
that hadn’t been written. In the wind
the eucalypts seemed self-conscious.
The last acacia melted over the day.