1303
27.vii.23
4.209
a Sydney winter bliss
with harbour
blue does no justice
it is a sandstone rusted day
awash with crane
grey navy foliage
it has a hat and towers too
brisk
and the smell of day ashore
far marbled hills of wealth ring round
a bob and sway of masted yacht
the forest of cliché steel today
most of the upstairs work is cloud
and I feel it on my face – the yellow
some certain rocks stand in the wash
to date before us all
take a good look at my skin and know
somewhere out beyond the heads
we must have once come through there
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