Complete your quartet of Celtic crosses.
Pretend you could slip it in there, reverse of walking frame or crib for North Sea Shell.
A thunderstorm was brewing, the blue backdrop
needed no seeds loosed off balloons to spawn and splice
spunk-white seams where updraft met down,
cold clustered dust and scabs of sub-Antarctic ice.
Scratches in marble with a needle moulded in the anvil
mirrored my elevation. Epitaphs in millibars, this aerial frieze.
The whole host was supposed to sing.
All I got was a plastic poinsettia, six currawongs and caretaker crushing cellophane behind my back the moment all sound was sucked out by clouds
bodies on the beach. a bitch in heat.
legs turn heads. human motor
corkscrew sand
hot shrink-wrapped sacks
This is my thing now. Quick before I get cold feet. (I will get cold feet.)
