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He was transfixed by the landscape
They sat four of them in the forby
A trio of kangaroos pass to their right
The car comes to a halt abruptly
They leave, I stay

The lake seems almost endless
As does time
Time enough to live out here
I don’t get that often
None of us do

Homeward bound as they say
‘Capital’ to one another in the back

He ran as fast as his legs could take him
After that green Woolworth’s bag
Lungs depleted
It will be good to win our way back home

Houses for the homeless
As Ireland was won back by the Irish
Abortion made law
But surely still scandalous in private

The trio of kangaroos passed on the way in
Is passed on the way out
And all is congruent with serenity

Will I ever get back to your desk?
To write and to breathe
As breathing is in relation to reading
Music cast from the other room
Soothing all that stands between us

Flying through the arid land now
And over the rock filled road

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Office Jetlag

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His face was trapped in the ceiling tiles above my computer. I stared at the roof, feeling the bile rise up in my throat. I hadn’t noticed it at first. The line on the bottom could have been anyone’s smile, and the two black dots among the white plaster could have been anyone’s eyes. But after he had leaned over my desk the first time, shouting at me, I stared at the ceiling tile straight afterwards and ever since pictured the outline of his face every time I looked at it.

Closer In

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You show up in Parnawarratji and try to arrange the single loop of sealed road, the vacant red dirt lots and the dotted housing with massive metal cages on the front, into a ‘community’ in your mind. It isn’t what you were expecting, but then, you didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not so much sky, arcing over the horizon, the line blurred by a hazy fringe of spinifex grass.