You are asking, red over blue, about
artifice and its obliquities. Each deft scale
edges her toward instauration. The lintel is given
to fortune's gift, a seam of coal, a radial bone
flung up to meet the kelpline, just, octaves
of chalk, consolations of a life arranged
in diatonic. What we think to hear within
'the broad sweeping form' of being there,
being here. Between the articles you say
that teleos is never less than myth.

A single ibis, curving threskiornis,
threads the clotted path from here to Mascot,
missing poles and planes. Several degrees fall
from a burning sky, sweep roadward
under anvil cloudheads. Does it surprise you,
this matter of voices? Or rather, the space
imagined for a cultural collision, argent bird
and ordered tree, elapsing as thought only.
Ecologies of type and temper sprawl to meet
the corners. Look out, star walking.

A clock for longitude, central to the talk
of empires, glassy face of contest between
artisans and royal star-gazers. This fetish
for cartographies, a legal key to desecration,
to the grinding trade. You wonder at a transit
of Venus, James Cook's superficial brief.
Isabell Coe claims Cockatoo Island, carries
healing smoke from fence to fence,
remembering a captain's terra scrawl
to the plush seats at the Court Supreme.

During the inauguration party, nobody
seems to mind that the new boss happily watches
twenty pairs of all-American legs, transfixed
or Bedazzled, while plotting the appointment
of a pro-protection team. He takes cues
from his father, who took cues from an actor,
and this is welcomed. An included middle
fills expansively with ghosts. Outgoing bodies
wave to a new centre left, rugged-up well
to meet intoxicating January ice.

Sixty miles clear of Gloucester, a person
stands beside a glass case, the promise
of stuffed charms, left hand holding coins
and right hand poised to anchor pink ducks
for love. POP 330, chipped paint
and retrospection hamburgers, satellites
to a year-old Supermall. Two flash lads
wear suits to the movies, one folds the other
into a cuff of his jacket, tenderly. I am
the avant-garde, and so is my wife.

'Your heart is indebted to the life's
blood of my heart,' they read, alphabets
of serious romance. Electrolytic winds
carry a memory of memory. Define the way
fruit-fly make precise ampersands of scribble
on these ripening skins, the way spiders sing
to the weather's approach. A lion bends
its knee to the step, shaking by a paperfall
of fireworks, red cut-ups for a new year.
Pocketful of genres, selected.

A writer cannot inherit an instance.
To dwell in the arrangement of things,
an open line, equating mode with spirit.
Give me an anchor in all this space,
embed us. A full orange moon is cornered
by adjustable horizons, temporal as anything.
News that absorbs news, a language of care,
we want to touch the drifting matter
of its mattering, sweet reason in this-topia,
a context and a mineral fact.