Sometimes I get out of bed
or I’m the Oblomov of Canning Street
            someone of little surface, somehow
                        morning, more morning
in glorious deferral
                        of debts and death—
                                                (we live before we die

                                    )
My phone died. I went out
walking            :
                        Carlton Gardens
                                    habiting myself
            to the dazzling and vast
epiphenomena of mineral extraction;
cold that day with the window thrown
                        how coffee cools off in sun
I’ve been thinking

            nice enough could be
                        nice—I could
            finish this later—you could
                        just come round
            talk to me, why
                        let these
            words come between us:

                        395 Canning Street
                        Carlton North, VIC 3054

            stranger, my
                                    stranger, step out
                                                                        into the
out here                     
                        even god
                                                doesn’t believe
in god
                        but studies
            anthropology  
                        in a
                        university
in New South Wales

                                                and sometimes
            struck
                                                            by the urge
                                                                        of
                                                                        words  
            writes: BIG
on doorsteps—
                                    each
                        of the three
                                                unfeasible
                                    letters
            alone
                        and
                                                large
                                       in
                                                            red
                                                                white-
                                                board marker,
                                    the hand unsteady,
                        someone has to rub the stone clean
            I’ve seen them,
                                                    erasing
                                    all evening, soap red
                        with stain

                         ’

Either we know everything or we know nothing.

                                                Start over.
                                                Do not write poetry. Do not
                                                Read poetry. Not from now
                                                Until this time next year. 3.21 a.m.

Unlike eels in the submerged river
unlike possum pelt, black liver, this this:
stone, in many ways but not all ways like
fleshSarajevo—in many ways but not all
ways like the body, my body, a place
to keep my bones, this, this

MORE FROM THIS ISSUE