A puddle of blackwater, a blackdamp,
a black mansion; in dry Australia, or a rainy desert, chasing a rhinoceros. Dry
rain, wet, moist fire, remarkable lights. Upon a flying fox, to have died
repeatedly, always giving life. Never dehydration, cups filled, wondering how
it moves into another season. A devoted wife, another chasing wisdom, both
trying to be “good,” where others chase winds, dig pits, cast snares, or perish
in the tumbleweed, afforded one hope on change; freshwater gators, wrestling
appetites, to know a man is foolish, a woman is eager to know more, both
passing breezes: no deeper demands, it will unlatch with time, it will come
back, if lucky. Dry thunder. Lightening reality. Nomadic order – different
seasons, different directions, different perfections. It’s all unreal – the
mind is unreal, and so real, always in motion, we say, “A demon was at me.” In
truth, parents, siblings, family, teachers, churches, these are at many of us.
Oaken brains, leaves moving, each
vein speaks to life – swimming in spaces, climbing skies, rockets at mercy and
falling faster; pythons in gardens, pains in allegators, rabbits sitting in the
briers. Monsoon life. Womb power. Alas, a man will be uneasy.
