HORNS IN THE FOG:

Walking back across Sydney Harbour Bridge at 8:00am, boats call 
to one another like love sick bulls. Joggers cut a line beneath
a tunnel of razor wire that guides us safely home. Everything 
is black & white & simple, Beautiful, rhythmic poetry, the bones
of a giant beast cooling it’s self in the morning fog.
My brothers & sisters fly home today, only crazy Peter & me left 
behind. He’s lying face down in brandy & mayonnaise stupor, I’m 
heading clean back out to the streets cruising for conversations 
as Sydney slips off it’s gossamer mantle & lays back on the shore, 
inviting in the sunlight.

(K)