a large penthouse
apartment with
inhabiting it

The one who expects
things of me
and then
gives me
about them,
mocking me and
her fists,

nothing is ever
good enough
for her
and because
the world
hurts her

The world hurts her because
she expects
to hurt

She expects everything
to hurt because
she doesn’t remember
was inescapable

Why does she
in my
such a tremendous

First published in Bukker Tillibul


I dreamed I was starting
in a running race
There were four 400-metre laps
Everyone else limbered up
When the gun went they took off
sending up divots from their spiked shoes
I stretched myself a bit and looked around
The finish line was only 50 metres from the starting blocks
Just there
Practically in front of me
so I walked forward until my belly touched the tape and said, Well?
But the man with the flag said
You're disqualified
You didn't run the four laps
What the hell were you thinking? Get out of here!

First published in Creatrix


But then I dreamed the same back
all covered in skin tags
and that was pretty challenging

but I think it was my body
and him sleeping on it
fronting the world

maybe just wanting to
I don’t know
the dream is the image

in an upstairs rank of some helpline
was it my happiness?
I don’t knit

but I think it was my bed
and him sitting on it
facing the wall

all that stupidity
I relinquish to mindlessness
simplicity and shallowness and smooth geology

and me behind his naked back
I don’t know
maybe touching

I did the song of his body
the beautiful silken song
standing up on a platform

all that skin
I resort to metaphor
sun and shade and smooth grass

and me behind his naked breath
I don’t knit
maybe testing

in an upstairs room of some house
was it my house?
I don’t know

maybe just wondering
I don’t knit
the delicacy is the issue

I dreamed the skin of his back
the beautiful silken skin
sitting up on a bed

but then I descended the same breath
all covered in density
and that was pretty convincing

First published in Australian Poetry Journal 5(2), November 2015

Dream 47

Let me tell you this.
You don’t know him.

You imagine him
in a place of dreams,
a place with not walls but a broad plain
on all sides of him,
a spread of sand,
thin grass,
dry shed skins
to warn off all who approach the line
he’s drawn around his balls.

You imagine him with balls,
a player.

Your voice is an etch,
your veins itch,
your song is the shriek of a wound,

but you don’t know him.

He’s not the place
of dreams,
the archway face,
the doorway body.
He’s not the dreamed hands
holding the dreamed map.
He’s not

the figure.

He’s the kinetic energy
of your pelvis, the mass
of your femur, the velocity
of your toes, the moment
of your sole printing
each next section

of ground.

and there
and there
and there.
He’s the dark walk,
the turning,
the going.

The not knowing.

First published in Creatrix