Aug. 7th, 2020
Consolation and its discontents
What is the peculiar
      consolation of a sky
like a violet lamp
above a crunched-foil sea?
Meanwhile, your mother
does not love you.
Still, there are the black
strokes of the trees
and the toy car lights
      on the rim of the bay.
In the sand, an eagle has lain down
and died, feather bunting
on a barn of bones,
wings still outstretched, as if
life ended
      still in flight.
Meanjin Winter
2019