Zero on the morning fug

In the pink of the Mormon,
he stole his soul away from
Garhd.        It was like
so derogating.
Forget it. Breaking
round the wrong door those
freaky mosquito things
        bouncing.
Where’s the shoe addict?
Walking through so many
gardens the wrong way

wasted on the goo fumes.
He was from the free falcon’s
feces.        Cheap grief for
the brokeridge.
Overwhelming? The sheets
smell finer than linoleum
kept in the sun to etch
        away.
Whole in the blind window,
leaking on the run, he’s kept
in the way of hopeless.

Then the sky called salmon
asked for the old craze days.
Wanton.        Peace locks and
jacaranda.
Cutting teeth to fade
sinking in the illustrious ticking.
        Unless
he’s blown away across the tree
tops and the spiral stops his moss.


David Graham (New South Wales)