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 Anderson,
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…
I used to come to your house
knocking at the door. A last 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.