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these days i’m in bed by 9pm.
the rain lashes our thirsting yard
until the dead grass drowns
into its second death and i’m asleep.
Voiceworks #125 Spectre
There’s a boy I swim with whose father just died of cancer,
a girl I coach whose mother passed the same way,
as well as the mother of my only remaining swim friend,
and an Olympian whose dad died too young.
Cordite Poetry Review
Vegemite on toast is what the locals eat around here.
not sure we can call ourselves that, with our lack
of pantry. a few shelves of Home Brand basics:
my childhood. sometimes news in the morning.
red wine sunset
algae sunk hills
cake crumbed soil
Blue Bottle Journal
autographed, antiquated town
bustling, possessive pride
pretensions sprawling protectively
over no great art.