Melbourne
Sunfire over rippling sheen,
and the slow rock of low waves.
Boats bobbing on water, quiet and ignored.
The heat dreams between creaking trees,
and the imaginable cold and clean grasp
of bay water.
So you shine, and this whole slow-motion world of days
vanishes into you.
You're laughing at the seagulls.
You're dropping twigs onto the water.
You're breathing quietly in your cup
of air – the frame of your ribs
embraces your physical heart. An insect
traces arcs across still water near the pier
and the heat keeps pressing.
Sydney
madness. Unbuckled streets engine their own noise.
Familiar muscular roads bulge with cars
but not faces.
The freshly radiant leaf-world reaches and splashes
green between houses, flats. Water you can feel flowing, pushing
thickly through the air itself,
and just over the ridge of orange rooves, your strung wires
looping and lazy in the teary haze, and nearby somewhere:
The ocean massing her shoreline.
Near Byrneside
Fragrant life has muddy fingers, and when he jumps
he tucks his knees up under his chin. Splashing in
the cool brown channel, a scatter cloud of insects whooshes away.
You can smell the freshness of horseshit, and you silent on the bank,
rest into long, faun grass. He appears again,
shaking the water from his head, serious about climbing out
to jump in again. He is practicing for the Olympics, just in case
Channel diving ever gets put in, you never know.
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