1

swamp pheasants like to mount the carcasses 
of white goods, so sensuously 
in a clearing
                    currently scattered
                    with hikers’ bulging knees

yeasty overcoats just fall 
from shoulders 
while cultivating a view 
& gambling on

waterfalls, which are too loud
to sit with a camera
ferociously poised

the only wilderness 
is the cavernous belly button
that presses a mouth 
through moth-coloured cotton

2

the night’s meeting of 
soot & spew is contemplated
by a harlequin tattoo
and a yellowed tongue / still asleep
under nylon, coughing,
kissing bitten lips 

& she is pink,
like feet cut on oysters—a yawn 
as she moves a leafcutter nymph 
to your 
ankle knob 

3

what animates?
pollen / matter & map 
are the spark of life— 
so is the accumulation 
                    of pauses
                    in the boy who kicks the ball hard
                    at that fluttering thing

4

camphor will penetrate 
the old cars, idle as blood—

this geography is contested &
obstructed only when 
fire is a flow 
or water is a colour

& everybody’s lawns end up
in the valley / it’s here: 
the opportunity
for strangers to reconcile