At night, with the airfeel thick, he lifts her arm
so she can feel him seeing
the salty blue lightning of her veins trickling
slowly beneath her skin.
This is a place of carpet-smell, of insects at windows,
of her dark ignoring eyes and his funny snuffling face.
In the channels, yabbies sift through soft mud
beneath massive grey clouds creased with black, coming over
immensely.
There is a mosquito hunting us in this room.
We hide beneath loose striped sheets, even in sleep
our heavy limbs angle to knots.
To be an adult is to realise you are never alone, though
always deeply lonely.
He is afraid the dogs he buried in the backyard
will some day come back barking.
She is watching for any sign of wakeness
and for the uncoupling of heat and air she knows
will cool the morning.
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