Being here is hearing being when
the sea sets and wind runs into the house
to hide: everything is red. Blood
someone once said of every dead Indian.
There's no doubt I drink too much.
Here. Being here I'm becoming biblical.
The locust threaten to descend. The fires
of early evening create a kind of cozy
campfire upon which we cremate all
that might have occurred to us. There is no news
that hasn't already happened. Still-
and that is the amazing thing, even a house
away from sunset-there is a kind of sweetness
in the chill, a jacarandad scent that settles
over ahead: and we believe even at the edge
of our continent we can push forward more, just
a little bit more, yet
we fortuitously forget
and fall back into the sling
of askewed arms. Shhhh, someone says
pointing a gun at my head, don't move.
I don't. I never will again.

26 June 2002