In the pan your gravels crashing hatched their prize—
a brindle rush to hump my veins and fever up the leaf
that twisted in our fields. The guilt was white, my soul a sieve.
It boomed with bull to see the dust an avenue of spin—
and my brickhouse hazy as a reef, its aura built to scale.
I seemed to tap its skin.
Birth was the pits but this is mine. Rabbits swimming to shake my mitts.
A conveyor belt reaping into action, cries
rubbish rocks rubbish rocks
breaks up floodlight, its flesh
a stingray covered, uncovered.
magic, enters the bulldozer
its tyres dissolve
as from the rocks and rubbish
the camera conveys
naked and furiously sweeping
a path through reeds, pandanus
by the trucks and manganese
at her feet.
The old men spin like tyres covered, uncovered.
It’s the sixties, then it isn’t.