Bronwyn Carter


disturbances, not loud but deep
travel one rotation becoming
the unctuous blood of peace
blue grey
running the licked finger of the peninsula.

this street
choked with plane trees
sends vaporous tunes over the balustrade
like changing perfumes held in lifts.
I’m reading –
the end of Robespierre.

backpackers drift to sparkling haze
sodium through circulation also forming
a mist of warship moans.
new ink welting on a shoulder of tacky bitumen
I follow every night

bringing to sharp relief
led lego paradise the tramps own
astonishing vista.
I thought I had to rifle through hedge hearts
for the guts of it
(how your legs are light!
of course you can fly)

god and reason
men jumping from ships
to a blank land, and its
perfect sheltered harbour.

whores eye each other
and I direct the Frenchman to the sky’s
glaucous equivalency; weeping with me
the mad girl bends and contracts, rejected
and sacrificed at the cross.