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 .  .  .

How I used to come to your house

my heart

knocking at the door. 


Along the tight poles of eucalypts,

across their vanished height,

making them seem stage curtains with deep pleats,

the night train’s bare spotlight.