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winter failing

i can distract apples away from trees,
can farm the south to the east
as if direction were the compass of what mattered.
the cosmic buzz of leaves-
deciduous, swirl like stormclouds,
i am an australian unicorn,
forelock like hanging branch.
our winters are pole fishing
for memory- one of drizzle, the other
of rome, tense slaughters
  in a roast of cheers, you could
confuse the columns for heartache
  of blood pumping to the top and pressing
cells, old clumps of dead writers;
  tell you what
those red drips on the sky, that buzz
of a powerline, i know i said purple
but i was blushing behind the clouds-  my own
legs are strawberry fields, they are hooves
tracking backward for the seed,
could be a slight wind from the south
pointing springward.
australia is the harvest of skin, writing itself on bark- it is words of dew and eucalypt,
it could be a summer of volume: heat stroke
and shark, or the winter’s bone drumming.
i can eat roo and seed,
  can side my eyes to the
  slaughter, or break  
let the winter be, it is a softer apple than you know- one of worms, of ropes twisting sadly.
let the winter be, it can’t hurt us anymore than love.

7 Mar 19

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