Sovereign sex: its carousel
comes this time to rest
on a rouged-up cock
flame robin, redly
cruel as all wealth atop
a corner post of my scorched,
failed plot of spuds
The rest of us cast round him,
transfixed to his sun,
can only guess at the joules
to get there; in our thirst
maybe even suspect him
of privilege, a secret stash
But this waratah bird
just plain outplays us, master
of the carnal art
of contrast. See him now
plunge from post to droughted
earth, her blankest canvas,
which he can’t help but ignite,
jigging like a lure
for insects