a black crooked finger pointing back to the house.
On the dead low the smell of the mangroves.The river seeps through the window, the books
are opened out on the desk. When the first breeze
hits the curtain the cats scatter.
It could be dawn for all I know, concentration
wanders through Creon’s words to Antigone
Go to the dead and love them – okay so they live as
long as I do – what else can I make of it?
The bright feathers from a crimson rosella lie
in clumps on the floor with a pair of broken wings.
In the dark I try to write and remember the zoo
I played in as a child. There was a balding sedated lion
and a wedge-tailed eagle hunched on a dead
tree in a cage; they threw it…
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