2302
7.109
20.iv.26
there’s
never any mail anymore
objects
arrive
wrapped
things
no mail
there
are waves
mysterious
waves
it’s
Sunday
keeps
washing in
a box by the side of the road
the sky shakes
I am getting the message
thin air
I think that they are listening too
are from a great distance
it’s not to say that nothing’s been posted
they lick at the envelope back
at the
stamp
these are all forms of possession
it’s as if the letters were out there
the wish of them
as if they’d been sent
sent long since
in a blue moon once
in Bush Week
always Sunday now
nothing’s delivered
it’s as if they’d been posted
mid forest
a cloud stood
where are trees now?
somehow the future was always too far
like light from a hitherto unnamed galaxy
will the arrow fall short?
some barren world?
no, the arrow still flies
it never fails
eyes were better
stars were bright
it was a penny to everywhere then
I like the map of Australia
I like the kangaroo
asleep in my chair in the afternoon
I dream that a letter’s arrived
