by Les Wicks
Predators like us know all about preservation of energy.
Background music — a drummer falls into his set the
ribbon gum has a hohum on —
sheds in sync with the birth
& beggary of spring.
We too tumble as we fumble
with bedsheets & nervepurrs —
that shack at the edge of the park
where Gymea Lilies engrave the sky.
Later we walk through paths
that kangaroos have made to water.
Sly imported grasses have homed themselves there
down deep beneath the ridge.
Beast & humans pass in edgy concord.
A few steps offtrack an echidna notices nothing but the feed.
This is the godguts of the land.
Like those grasses
we are somehow a part
yet simultaneously irrelevant & a threat —
our recording, our boots.
