Sixty Eights

Sixty Eights

I have this garden about my head
where upturned things breathe again
birds fly in and out
dropping twigs dropping droppings
there’s a guitar with an elk fern propped
strings hang loose rusty for promise
the possum I buried has sprung to fig
a moreton bay the next owners can worry
the blue tongues are endlessly at it
not minding my step over tripsy
another piece of Irish Strawberry tree
has crashed through the wood shed
the kikuyu has escaped recalcitrant
no end of round up can diminish it
the lemon tree sarcastically fruits all year
a swathe of plums won’t confess to genus
wings beset everything
you’re frustrated by my meandering
“Jim another fucking book is in the post
where’s it going to go, at least read it.”
Ah, but where’s it been Love
as a kookaburra snaps my glasses
I’ll get to everything, eventually

4 thoughts on “Sixty Eights

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