Both Hands

Sometimes I feel as if we're holding our fight out 'till someone has something real to say. The piano made me say that. The piano makes things shift and I can see things more clearly as if I had a fully body grand infront of me and now I have only its strings. Like I've pulled the thing apart, to know how it works and I'm waiting for my brain to switch from hearing the music to only hearing beaters upon strings. When I am in deep concentration, I either have my brow furrowed or my mouth hangs open letting everyone see my crossbite and lack of wisdom teeth. Instead of concentrating, I am going to talk it through because the only words I could find in myself to sing this evening were 'I'm holding my fight out, I'm holding my fight out with both hands.'

Teeth.

There is an Aboriginal man

that comes into the store

and smiles so widely 

I can see all of his teeth.

He calls out to me, 

6 ft away,

"Sis! I haven't seen you in ages!"

and I reply,

"Bro, it's been a week!

Just a week, you drongo!"

And he laughs, 

and laughs.

Townsville

And I can't remove

this nervous energy

that swept over me like nightfall does:

gradually shifting, like all

my colours were blending,

and darkening, 

and the stars came out in brilliant form

(like they did on New Years)

(and frankly, as they do every other night)

and I couldn't unsee you.

Your expression never changed. 

Scott says your insides have, though. 

Bats

I am petrified of the sound that escalators make at night. It's as if I'm in a dark cave. Filled with bats. And all of them are discussing my presence. It's cold and my way out is delayed. My guide is preoccupied and the mode of transport, delayed.

Bed.

(Acutely aware)
This is a long train journey
Reading about 'Nazi book-burnings'
And solving newspaper puzzles over a lady's shoulder

Quietly

Orange street lamps and cracked pavement
Are the only things that keep us together.

It's all staggered, this journey, as they bring in new stop signs, new moments, new punctuational errors in notices and announcements. The mountain has grown larger during the week I have been absent, and in the night it yawns a blackness to swallow me: promising the shuffling of trees feet in its depths. I do not feel home anymore. I feel displaced. August brings a wind to answer home's question, home wandering haphazardly in and out place: "Where am I? Is anybody there?"

The wind replies, "You're where the beds are free, my dear. Nothing here can hurt you."