Who stole the cripple’s ukulele

or stole the cripple away?

I used to fear for him, playing underfoot

in the halls of the railway.


My grandmother, an Aderson,

was speaking of me, I could have sworn,

when she told my sister

“Kohl rabi for dinner.”


In my dream, I was leaned far out

among the cordage

of a yawl, in the morning

of the world.


Just half a loaf, Arthur.”

On his bike

he drifts into the night, and seems a yacht,

a white shadow passing.


When we come to reminisce,

a silver tear

falls from us both

among the cutlery.


Wading in ferns,

waist-deep, at twilight. On the horizon

a tanker barely moves, and the clouds

are translucent as pearls.

Rain towards morning …

A house above the shore

where I used to go, with my heart

knocking on the door.


Along the tight poles of eucalypts,

across their vanished height,

which makes them seem stage curtains with deep pleats,

the night train’s bare spotlight.


A crushed light on the cold water. Nature 

stirs with a dream of man,

but in a moment all of that has passed

and she can dream sleep again.