Up there – what streams
from the bodiless slackline
parabolas – distance steals
their colour, their music –
strung high above the street on carnival day
between blue glass
and blue steel megaliths?
I believe the answer is
undeterminable.
And because it is the last, always
the last way
I would use my agency if
I could help it, I hurt you
as those fearful of fractures
fall over smooth pavement.
Today, your floodwaters
send me on wild detours, into
solitude, rage without owner.
Unsung land is dead land.
That, of all things, is what you
looking up at the slacklines
say – the songlines keep the land alive.
You believe the proof is
irrefutable.
You wear your hair like someone
destined to be courted
by my kind of suitor, who hopes as ardently
as he despairs. You make love
like an octopus playing the harp.
From what ride have I just
disembarked to feel so dizzy?
Floats move past, slowly.
A crowd of many thousands
turns the national anthem into fugue.
Children loose helium balloons –
they rise through the slacklines
and the song, not touching them
but sometimes coming close.
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