She, the wildebeest, is scratching his throat like a wildebeest.
Something like the premiere of this summer's despot voyeur
in the laneway cinema, or propped up on a billboard with
lights like the face of Melbourne Central. Never seen so many
candies, we penetrate the cloister with candles and lose
our wrists to the suffusion of wax. Make us permanent,
dear archivist, finish your shift and be done with us,
we'd be taken anywhere were we but unshackled. Something
fleshly, with protruding tongue. Nothing kinky, so far, for the visiting
parents are still expecting the children to go to bed, even with
the drought over this vernal eleventh year. Should he then take
the talisman – the fingerprint – from her forehead, or have Mark
and May dissemble the rendezvous of the taxi beyond their clattering
iron latch gate, shared with youth, slamming it to make an example
of the architecture. Or the inconstancy. Or of this
quiet facility of descrying impending privation, that is, here we
mostly hedge nasturtiums and cultivate the odd poppy –
there goes a moan in the night! – and the lights go off when
we're done with them, unlike the private library installation within,
nearby, townhoused, whose garden lights never shutter their lunar
purview of the structure, even in a blackout. Thus, we are
halfway burrowing futurity, but no two souls have us sneezing
inexplicably. May my throat tingle in perpetuity, your mornings
make the fringe lilies undress, and it is time to breakfast, princess.