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.


Likelihood of Coconuts

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.

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