At the recycling centre 3 cats with a 3-box kennel and this woman - grubby nylon and a whispering smile. She says “I’m looking for something” and the cats ooze, tails like worms. Near the gate, a Toyota Seca and a sleeping bag greet the feebling sun I would spend all my days mimicking star-shine for you striking sparks to empty your face of shadows. The kitchen sky’s awash and I can’t hear you above the shooshing. Good old Winter has her branches out sweeping up every milk cloud splatter that skirts the ice cream moon The little girl on the stairs has a hole in her green tights and a violin that lunges around her body. She is telling a story of crocodiles and tree kangaroos as she arranges herself for each step, her grin like a lighthouse Dad waits at the bottom. Cold air river. They say money speaks in a foreign tongue but nobody’s listening this wicker night. Sinew are the mountains and we’re stopping to rest. Rocky shoulder and broken visions. There’s darkness in the west angrier than Rumplestiltskin. A name. A name that echoes and is gone.