Fitzroy North VIC
Under a bindweed arbour grappling for shape - looking out
Across the sharp, the soft, the vanishing shade.
I watch the commerical jets creep like beetles lugging sunlight
On bright, dentrific bodies, tailfins dipped in model-red shellac.
Hot north-westerlies ruffle the morning glory's green curtains
Back and forth, back and forth in a rocking motion.
The dry wind rocks any remaining sense-making faith I have
In unfelt movements. Up in a pressurised cabin, how do I know
If a graceful dip of wings is art or sophistry?
The flourish of a cap-worn pilot vs. his very terminal panic.
Even evasive manoeuvres appear sublime in windows
Between two unanchored atmospheres, and this is why
Sudden consciousness of the celestial motion that pushes away
The shadow of hanging vines makes good people
Go squashed-bug batshit in their own pergolas, glued to the world
Spinning still by their invisible guts.