with a simple cross,
with the swiftness of grasslands
swindled for quarry,
for a beach of burning river sand
hatched by ophidian shadows,
a glanced lizard scudding
on the prismatic surface of water tension,
for the clean face of a wave
thickening with blackness of dolphins.
Wet money gurgles in a swamp
and the oligarch’s easement is guaranteed,
a hireling paid
to scrape and oil his armoury.
Fields of white stubble await the razor’s
grin, the ingress of blighted spirits,
a charring smoulder that reveals
dripping stalagmites of morgue,
dirt bikes yawing on the switchback
precipice past Turnaround Road,
all the young dudes on Maybe Street
taloned logging trucks.