There have been seasons
& reasons this year
four colours fled.

We don't do autumn here — bipolar sun & angular grass.
Birds know lizards as
birds are lizards.
First the mother dies, I fake about in a suit so twiggy sad
while seeing only blood, watered amaranth & her grasping air
she fought beyond thought hungry
for the oxygen, clamour of the heart.
Comfort food, comfort fools
all grown up.
I will see her
in more years.
The northerly blows ash on our sheet music.

Then my woman isn't anymore,
our 28th anniversary spent in separate suburbs. This season next,
this turning from the coast
just blue
from the west all air takes us
just out. Without control, purpose or insight
decisions clatter across tiles, SOLD.
Rooster is ratty
clouds of wood
a fretty mallard. I want again to believe but
please nothing first.
Winter is no time for sails.

S was a lovely inconvenience
like to bindiis in the lawn implausibly green.
I tasted something on her lips
that prompted eastern appetite.
We were hungry all-right. . . to
explain, you smell the vine still attached to Spring tomatoes.
As malls were defeated, cars gave up
& money moves to better towns
somewhere in space, we
were motionless.

Summer is locked out by a picket of Southerlies,
a felt erosion.
I carried a piano out to Solitude
wrecked my back &
don't play anyway just
being a bit orchestral.
Yes, alone
this dancing lizard
folds the paper.
A frozen treat is immanence, even
some commonsense
just be me.

Romeo on the rickle
smirks at remnant forest.
His rock fits nothing but himself.