Way of poppies, I climb upstairs — hurts to think,
bliss to move. And I won’t dispute a cigarette
on the famous corner. Hummingbirds; stars.
I never saw how hemispheres breathe differently.
Are hamlets of equal worth, is globalisation a mirage?
An antidote to poetry could be spring in America —
cures that make us stronger, champions of all we crave.
‘Long hair is a sign of patience if nothing else.’
May mine become that shining river ... Places
aren’t of equal worth. Sudden cold in a forest,
with ghosts of the lynched, streets in San Francisco,
or the chicken factory on the highway to Geelong.
Will memory fade, or grow more intense?