Poetry

on empty

On a hot day the North-West Plain is so flat it isn’t.

The horizon curves and stirs like a wisp of moustache.

Animals burrow that aren’t meant to burrow.

Prey walk past their predators under a white flag.

The eyes of roadkill are left to boil in their sockets.

The can of beer is dry when you open it.

A cigarette is rolling another swagman.

The motor smokes nervously before you start it.

The mobile phone sweats, whimpers and croaks.

The devil is on holiday in Tasmania.

The paddock on the left is Texas.

The seat of government is the only tree.

We’ll take a rest-stop at the next mirage.

Is it far? It has been. Are we there yet? No. 

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