The painter says paint can't be bought,
the only colours Darwin offers
are vitriolic greens and yellow chromes:
clay does for ochre,
ash makes a passable payne's grey,
but all i have for black
is wheedling printer's ink —
i want a jammy dark that lays on thick.
and i need red.
what does this place want of me,
my blood?
If I were a conjuror
I could pull the colours from my sleeve.
If he needed blue
I'd distil it from his eyes.
the threshold of extinction
somewhere for feet to move through
virdigris in the sink
bleached curtains in strips
fly carcasses on every window sill
find a house uninhabited for years
and someone suddenly wants rent
perfectly kind one week black suspicion
the next so often stray cats prefer
the verandah stars for walls
broken-handled knives forks with bent tines
clutter's implied disgrace
long-gone voices collect in corners
thicker than dust
shout and the sound slaps back
like a wind slammed door
wall-contained night no idea which way
the trees lean if frost has painted the grass
or what the southern cross
is up to laziness taps on cracked glass
mould on the wallpaper the shape of
monstrous heads a square patch where
a picture hung or a text
bless this house
self preservation the secret miracle
once a tin of pipe tobacco left
in a dresser drawer and the incongruity
of a Bakelite smokers stand once
an upright piano heavy with dust
and sticking yellow keys—I let it rip
uses for old cardboard the shell of a rat
a man's worth measured by the concessions he makes
when a storm comes the tin roof
groans
in a house i dream of drowning
in a boat i don't