a memory, Federal election, 2004

There are no more deliveries of earth

You cannot catch the sand, it won’t pour

from our prime fists into your dislocated hands.

Supply is bottle necked in the hours

that armless queens can shovel kings.


We close our eyes into this landscape with refuge lines scratched in last

on a canvas whiting out beneath square frames of glass.

The picture is the paradox of lucid sleep

You can’t switch the light on or cover your eyes

You can’t wake from him.


This is not a dream of skipping land

where the wind and rain are sung

it’s a shuffle in one place, the climate dictates

dead hearts vote in buckets

and are dumped from a Canberra window.


Originally published in The Age, 19/2/05.




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