like the word silence, they don’t have a real existence
The first Iris to bloom splashes colour in the sombre garden of the Seven Sages.
. . . trapped behind bars and inside a poem, the calligraphy chiseled
I like a backbone, streaked with gold, a solid start to Australia.
Whispering so close to your ear ‘I love you’ that it tickles.
The sky is that sublime blue borrowed twenty years ago today
Water has its own inventions, its own logic . . .
We were building wooden huts around 400,000 years ago
Do we need gods, now sin is common knowledge?
Something’s missing, I forgot my camera . . .