Aeolus at the Mulga

The desert wind wears a blunt dust
cantankerous yap
lifts sheetmetal
from the deaths
of the snub-nosed Silverton buses all
cut like raw opal
pressed into a humiliating servitude
windbreaks for camels.
Punctuation of crows
affixed on air.
The land is your lungs
but flies have retired as the gale wails.
Ants flummox
by vertebrae of quartz
red veined.
Beneath this lee
my eyes are lost. This wind is a tide
only bones bask
on gasping sand – that kangaroo spine
sits prissy, 90° against
the perimeters of stone.
Go deep, don’t assume.
A huff of emus
disperse like seeds as I approach.
This is a vacated day
feet crash on pepper.
We have built much
the skipsy genes that jitter
past our hands.
Falter – this adamance shuts the mouth
comes over, spits
that coming shine we smelt from rocks.
Death by a purpose
still destiny to bend
the nuisance of new sense.
Only dry scat is left on the 100km mat.
Concession is prayer
excoriation,
we make brushes.
God could be a wind
& heaven is a spot…
safely away from its hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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