One Hundred and Eighteen.


Izzy circle


chardonnay swirling like captured sunlight in mottled hands
rough-cut, wood-hewn hands that built these walls

the sea snuck up through the trees, slipped through the flyscreen
rumbling and rolling now in the depths of your laugh

the tin roof is ticking and the old fridge humming, glass clink
and every roof beam is leaning in closer, listening in

yarns unroll across swept slate floors and threadbare carpets
in the morning the dishes will dry and kookaburra laugh


Sarah circle


Got a little splinter in my thumb it seems
Keeps twitching near highways and road trains
Flicking out like it knows just where it’s going
And it’s anywhere but here



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