Thursday, April 30, 2009: On the Street….Missoni Dress, Sydney

Living by the ocean is transformative.
Her mother had said this, ten years ago
Cross-legged in the soil of her garden
Like it was a parked magic carpet.

And now, the wind that rushed over
The Sydney Opera House and ocean
Spun its salt against her face, wild,
Briny, perfect for preservation.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009: On the Street….Oxford St., Sydney

The stoplight flushes red,
And a mechanical bird tweets
That it’s safe to cross.

Lights and sounds propel me
From corner to corner,
Through the pinball machine town.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009: On the Street….Sammie, Sydney

The marbled grain of wood recalls fingerprints,
Patterns of hair in the scalp.

We are marked by the ways we grow or stop growing,
Skin embossed with ridges

And lines, topographical. Highways of indigo unfurl
In my forearm, shuttling blood

Automatically. It’s not my doing. If I had a tail,
Could I flick it with the same ease

With which I twirl my hair or tap my feet?
Probably, but I don’t. So I allow

The traffic of my body to continue, to continue
To bear the impressions left

From the molds that cast me: gridlines, carvings,
Indentations and inscriptions.

Saturday, April 25, 2009: On the Street…The Tailor of Chapel Street, Melbourne

These windows don’t open.
They have the correct appendages:
A small white crank that spins freely,
Unmoored to screw’s threads inside;
A latch that clicks like an on/off switch
Into place. These windows don’t
Open, but it seems that they once did,
Allowing the woman who lived here
Before me to stick an arm into
The crisp, bright air, palm down,
Wrist flexed as she admired the sunlight
Glancing off her nails, as a tailor might
Marvel at the sheen of fabric before cutting.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006: Graduate of the Carine Roitfield School of Sexy

Stained sidewalk, flaking paint, peeling bench
And long, dark strands of your hair
Making sheet music of my forearm.