12 February 2012
original poem had background image
bollard suite
con
brio
and up to your armpits
in ampersands
dream of tradition
there you are
a line drawn in quicksand
desperate for praise
and dazed when receiving it
and who you are
and what
you will become
turns you
like pederasts
on slow fires
or fish
in a silver wattle
draping its branches
like lichen
a character
in noumen
what is there
that your spondylosis
engages
not to be ashamed
of the civic night
its chiaroscuro
its manichean
biology
now