The wings of peculiar dragon flies,
silhouetted in a sky
ungrounded by grief.
And still the sea spray barrelling upward
into that column of light against the crumbling rock face
salt white red white grey white
huge leaves massive sun away.
Luminous in death
Bottle-brushes scour into speech against the tin.
I wake exhausted—all night running.
The dust. The sweat.
At the last bend (always the last bend)
I rise—a white fire sheet
of salted silk against the wind.
Ahead a field of paperbarks aflame.
White blazing behind shadowed mountain
luminous in death,
enticing me home to the deft silence of your touch.
Your bladed shoulder is a wingless beam in this neon car park.
Dark amber glass shards fleck asphalt.
Lights out in the Video Easy.
Tremble skin touched in the shadows of midnight.
The shadows of wattles rooted in concrete.
The shadows of dashboard lights.
Another long shift
of one last sigh.
Algorithms predicted last night’s mist,
its roll and flow across the bay
wind thrashing the bare arms of spotted gums.
Overnight facial recognition software churned the identities
of a billion public transport travelers, mapping the contours of faces
via the depth span and fill of 80 topographic points.
Condensation travels the angles of the roof
to fall in perfect parallel drops,
irregularly spaced explosions against the balustrade of morning.