“we’re going to be pretty safe,”
I heard him say.
the tree had its arms up
like a person seized in worship
sweet bark skin loaded with blossom
and lorikeets, shrieking
that old cherry tree
hugging the shed around its bang-bang door
and its heavy brick stops
drops
corrupts
erupts
with the heat of a shining
petrol supernova
the peak luminosity of a faraway
star
patterns on the asphalt
the falling-apart of a child’s
cardboard box umbrella
hiding inside the sweet-smelling rain
the way the light curves towards next year,
or last—
I can’t remember
how it goes
anymore