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by Brenton Rossow
Morning in the Fishing Village picking her nose
without a hint of embarrassment,
we sit around the TV
and listen to the tinkle
of a bamboo xylophone grandmother smiles
and squints in my direction
bees buzz around a table
of sugary treats
as a couple of dogs
sniff my ankles
and retire at my feet people ignore me
and go about their business a little up the road
the sound of a funeral
tiptoes between the leaves
as a man with a face
like a twinkling frying pan
rides his bicycle
upon the spine
of a thirsty hill sitting in silence;
eyes
in all directions,
clouds
rolling across
the sea
soon the fisherman
will be home
and their families
and leave me alone
with my scars and the breeze
The Petals of a Flower Spin Like a Helicopter the piano plays
the air conditioner whistles
my stomach clenches
waves break
on sharp grey rocks someone's putting
a baby to sleep
someone's hanging
clothes out a flower
has fallen
from a tree hinges of a gate
wince the petals
of the flower
spin like a helicopter |