Bronwyn Carter

Sydney’s Tides

That hollow, soft with silver grass, seethes a little;
its recessed secrets exhale. An upraised arm. Bodies
following the full moon. Confusing street lights
which rise.

Waxing draws storms
chasing down health greater
than I want more:
they never waited
for the inverted effort you made to love me.

From Coogee to Bondi
sea-spray clouds reflected light
hazing the stone bridge. Breaking
and drawing, drawing and breaking.

Exposure tempered by the ocean’s
first floor entry. Homoeopathic sex
my indentions levitating
chin height with airy, tressy, robe-flow ripples.

An innocence of warm night air;
the percussive king-tide thundering. Over all this
light streaks: such strong beams might be a poison or disembodied evil,
the two to three million, but the beauty of lacework ensures
these white ribbons – ropes of my maypole
dance, springing me from month through season.

Of years as unstable as water and like water would perhaps finally prevail.
Waning draws stampeding crabs; carapace etched in
hieroglyphs, and circuit boards to power her camera
recording the water babies spontaneity.

Sea of men crying for the moon
guiding their calculated
geometry through declining space.
Slowing the heart beat of the world,
I roll into this rock pool, two-minded.

Dawn lights up the gore
salt breezes foam the cooking edge
theatre of behaviour, scraped-up
dragon-like, fills the room; spine smoking on light fixtures.

the city tap tap tapping away; dripping, seeping,
wanting attention, as we revolve together, my love.