(for the siblings)
they are there on the cusp of a
little hill, in the trampled splendour
of a suburban yard. they are three,
elephantine trunks standing against a
background of untidy sky, their oily
confidences drab on Escher limbs,
and the still bricks and lost pickets
heighten the haecceity of these three.
I go and sit with them often. I sit
between them, face to a bleary just-risen
moon and while breathing deeper and deeper
I find a kind of un-stringed puppetness
owning me. everything around them is
not tinted, a landscape of slow bleeds
Continue reading for only $10 per month.
Subscribe and gain full access to Australian Book Review.
Already a subscriber? Sign in.
If you need assistance, feel free to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..
If you are an ABR subscriber, you will need to sign in to post a comment.
If you have forgotten your sign in details, or if you receive an error message when trying to submit your comment, please email your comment (and the name of the article to which it relates) to ABR Comments. We will review your comment and, subject to approval, we will post it under your name.
Please note that all comments must be approved by ABR and comply with our Terms & Conditions.