Ruby Street

colour memory ignited in eyes sketched in flame light giving to form a hunger ghosting that necessity, pain in which abundance is its own hiding place the inconspicuous spring

bird looks like time it flies above it multitude and flight movement colours lost within mountains home lines end in land becoming water through seasons of perpetual light, perpetual fall the never-ending begins what age is coming? in silence is no silence feather bones lifting the air

in direct profusion ferny light captured green by the interior a filter in the weeks heated over by last summer where is the dryness? extended and eliminated too far from wet coasts? reach a hand beyond reinforcement a certain fresh forest or another world hot slow quarters paradisical the passage seek them, breeze always found face outside improves the molasses of fruit garden directs its eyes

whisper the dry track veil of ways dream fuelled like escapees this magician the price of form I have my words their elasticity connects skin the alive thought

The privilege of beauty is something we’ve imagined rather than paid for. When it all blows down who claims the sky lets dark outside the eyes. As the garden perfects one petal, leaves buckle into heat streams. The velvet is lush, alien unlike diesel and gasoline dripping rain, rather than sex reminding you the wall is pushed by undone gutters.

I've been sifting all my life. Who knows what you're looking for: pageants of failures staged on memory television. That may be reality or an exit strategy (by you or whose army). That's it: a list, warnings, a series of dreams.

a globe of water clear fruit, dirty fruit water that is water you never get a circle, not a question

The real becomes part of the words. They are said, they are written. What becomes history is one lead. Emotion is another. What is more unreliable?

The Now is surrounded by time. Occasionally you fear there is no time, only billable hours. The act as it stands is inconsistent with the models. What of this failure to identify the measure? Interests driven by gear, framing of loss and dividends. So long as it’s written down, like disaster recovery. There’s a key, silvery, sharp. Where’s the good news? Where the work is?

we appear as if of beauty to increase colour the rebellion, the bud dying in the data of time subversive memory we are

The future often seems like the past, but it isn't. I am leaving town soon. Tonight at the rise of the hill, the black sweep of a bat, the skreek. Now the wind is up, the chill is in. I feel that my bones are made of sandstone and mildew, that Sydney feeling. What will I make of the dry, and the desert? All around me is transport: trains, planes, dogs out walking. The past was never the future, something you can only earn. What have you forgotten, now you are seated and staring at your hands?