Moving Galleries

in death
she will leave the shape
of a cat

grey dawn
thin old moon
alone and radiant

Art Gallery
waterwall
friezes over.

I’m listening to Hurt, which Johnny Cash
now sings: the needle’s in his voice, a ghost
lends him its wings, and even with the clash ...

We have velvet theories
about boys becoming men,
the mysteries of plumbing ... 

little girl sweeps herself
across the park
a pretty burn
of yellow cloth ...

After twighlight,

At her desk,

She ponders the implications of signing in crayon..

The wind rhymes with the sound of their pants

brushing against their legs. The music must shift

to a higher register, whenever the diesel trains roar. ...

She’s a delicate rose
Found in flowery prose
And I’m not her. ...

She bought a new car, a
4WD, and for the first
time in her life, she
was still unhappy.

Outside the Library,
the pigeons do to Redmond Barry
what Ned Kelly never could.

I crumple the sea in my dreams wake
to the shallow pool of my head
I should go North lose weight catch up
with the other divers hear words slip jelly-like ...

Leonardo da Vinci wrote a list
of things he wanted to know:
the cause of tickling
the tongue of the woodpecker ...

The outline of horse’s hooves
are tattooed into the drought
baked road. White clay
gravel hard, and the echo ...

The lights in the street
are gold or white or blue.

The primitive grass says nothing
of what’s to come. ...

ten billion light years away a star explodes
its light still out there
building the iron for my car
the dust that built our planet earth ...

first frost --
the kindling takes
with a hiss

Do my ears look big in this?
You’d tell me if they did,
Right?
Cause my forearm clashes with my pants. ...