Pull over here, watch some spinning nightly fights reach
across a highway’s ribs. At the Kamiloroi Highway’s spine
two signs rise and speak and re-speak. Their slur contents impeach
a mountain feature to the west. Move your breath with its outline
at which some racing things have come to rest. Others trudge upon.
Ev’ry night, the sign decries ‘Gin’s Leap’; and it’s replied with scrawl.
On this site, dry cliff, all quiet: the blak re-namers brawlin’ on.
White ones sparring back. Write, revise revise revise revise revise the sprawl.
Winangala! Your feet depress land story-holdin’.
The sign-ribs come down, back up. It matters, the tale—
whose many versions woven?—woman flees marriage, woman’s child stolen.
Your engine paused. Its useless gasps all join the hale
with yours and theirs. See dawn emerge. Your windshield but filmed dust
Gin’s Leap de-signed, re-named again. As it must and as you must.