in the tepee
they stoke a fire
with glossy
magazines
and Lynx Accellerate –
sing commercial
jingle fugues, two-part harmonized
with guttural prayer and
war noises
channelled from the depths
as odes to fish fingers
and shampoo. what
could be holier
than this? assent
beams from all the pale
faces
except
hers
which is over
on a Melbourne sidewalk
where frescoes of lobed
leaf stains
pretty the greased cement
outside a
mechanic’s, leaves themselves
long since
ushered down
the drains and
out to sea –
what could be more beautiful than the body
art of the departed
art of the departed
leaves?
and
except
his
which is only
watching faces
watching
her.
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