Les Wicks


The tide writes on crippled sandstone
here where the wind will stop
to burrow my bent back & core-out the ears.
There is contest
salt rime, the contracts of love
yabbering in your knees.
There is the season of whales before
the season of blowflies.

The isthmus is a gold pen.
Throwaway, castaway prayers
on the margins of the sea.

White industry, brown industry
the carouse & crowds in
August's Westerlies.
There will be no room for me soon
but I continue to contest
tree, telegraph pole. . .
a bush track at the city's
tumbled fringe.

If music is to end,
end it.
Edit yourself with scalpels
till the sun can see through.
Promises on stucco plans
fade in a weak glare, unsupported in the afternoon quiet.
This lorikeet light,
a mocking fool of lawn

I will not own
will not own me.