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Thursday, 8 December 2016

Cut Around Dotted Line

The bay flat as an omelette

and fried to lace at the edge.

Ernest people walk the hard-packed sand;

they seem introverted or despondent.

I love the marram grass

between the boardwalk and the waves.

The marram grass is like me:

a little out of place.

I am one of those people who carries

out-of-placeness around with them,

like an overcoat.

I am always a little wrong,

as though someone may have cut me out

and stuck me on.

There is not enough time in one lifetime

to find out where you fit.

Once, I sat by the creek with a small campfire

and a billy of tea-

even then, I couldn’t settle.

I felt the eyes of my own torments

watching me.


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