By Jane Frank
Part of me hovers in icy harbour air. Beyond the skein
of streets, the peak glows orange.
Love just is
and we happen to be in the path of it. I walk for a long
time, trawlers cutting through silk,
drawn to the red crosses
of Dark Mofo. I photograph the moon, distracted by strings
of far shore lights, the Derwent a dark gallery.
The blackness
is deeper here, velvet-rich like in ancient times when people
read the heavens like a book. I think about
how Earth looks
from space, red with fire, imagine snowflakes decorating
the space between me and the mountains,
easier to remember
who I used to be if I’m willing to become a little lost / Up
early, I wander down Battery Point’s narrow lanes
scooped by sea views,
sun shards bouncing off sandstone and brick around a circus
of haphazard cottages, houses tumbling backwards
to the white-capped mountain.
Gulls circle. I could run from here onto clouds. Ivory flat-
lands sprawl through the oval window,
flying home. Transparent
edges where, if you didn’t watch your step, you might fall
through to a green hell—only distances matter,
sundrenched finish lines.
I look into screensaver eyes that know I will soon return,
an absurd happiness striking. Already, I am
shedding layers.
Hobart Reset