barracking not battling
Whitsunday pace at nine-o-
nine a.m. you seem to stall
mouth wash down from 405
and out along the Reach
turned Redondo-red -
indolent, baked on hard
witherin and waiting in the sweet
raisin wind and give (the last
time's note-perfect score) I
would believe, a lesson
in this, paunching up against -
the curving out of the world
at its tiredest edge
a slipper slope pickelhaube
out down the Bay, and rain with
anchovies like kings falls on
a softer, derided day, one
that you, said, couldn't be
.
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