1

someone puts her in mind of,— flowers,
even if; she denies it she creates
a garden of denial as,— if intoxicated with
imagery she; writes as a pathway through, or
cure for it the, something or a someone the,
effect becomes circular or mirror, like you cant escape
trouble yourself & this becomes, a form of
homelessness for who can live in,— lilac for example.
let alone beauty or writing let alone mist or
love this is what aloneness is it can
be deadly or at least scary but she like,
us has, grown up with, it forced no
choosing to find company or whats called life,
in dying — evanescent pale — things that are themselves promises.

2

the little self is hardy; that to go south
is warm whats that mean when youre on a beach!
we know too well what we create & what;
we participate in though it washes us away bit by;
piece & our own temperatures fluctuate exteriors &,
interiors drift further from each other so we hurt;
behind the house we were only visiting
the hurt isnt though, the tape of past &.
thought does its best to wrap it up
the best,— effect comes from new ones then.
you pretend to be changing & unafraid
theres no heathen joy to be had remember him
he was, “only an extension of myself or sign!”
from god so what, has been learned.

3

the season knows you as its own &,
the bay as it produces weed for you to;
put in a, pocket &, bring out a
hat never photographed & never; was your water drunk
the moons no, good except as hook,
to pull you back over the sands of dance,
you are not too tall to be a bird.
a sign i hope the wind ignores the
drops foreground what this is really about rain;
loss of focus &, ignorance of steps directions magpie
swoops they know something too from a different view &,—
maybe on another day you or another a summers
day tanned,— & feeling light youll answer who.

4

where youre born when you die well it —
coincides & history takes on its long black
shape then, morning comes & its back to —
piling sand, its not a stretch, you came from
aliens yourself a bedroom, can barely contain you yet;
has & all your imagination & the other
residents no more native resemble their precursors in their,
being creative not at, all like moles or.
wombats that eye the damper eaters & the billy
shrimps, tell us the story of you with prejudice;
or read, slessor & byron emphasising words as,
if theyre clues to be captured spirals of wire that:
run along our thoughts &, lives in
the notebooks our bodies are our bluetacked limbs.

5

taking degrees & learning, about learning studying error &,
creating a discourse on, it being prepared for —
you as a multitude-only & so when, you,
disappear with my number or name the warmth,
of my hand still on my own
theres another face to (look at blur memory with)
they or you, create a texture a means,
by which the subject of relationships might be —
addressed accentuated somehow puffed into — a drama a profitable
tension, its the worst that can be said & —
if it produces a lack of affect in the
writer himself his body ages of course but;
is it from living the life is all in
the work & who knows someone might single themselves out

6

to look or beauty yourself, to go into;
its rooms &, hope to see something in it
change but you .... know how much whats inside,
you alter, everything you see giving
beauty much-more than, the bare bones of its
aesthetic presence rather trouble, the bubbling up of;
things that you & he .... wanted or got:
& didnt want, or didnt use.
so you havent shaved or dress in a skirt
& if, were whats around us not;
all our surroundings are visible dont like me forsake
the magic of tomorrow for todays mistake
of course you can leave it yourself to
the leftovers of fate. as these photos attest.

7

we walk among bears & coloured things that reflect,
our emotions or draw us to them;
you know where ive been, youve seen the snaps
& if our hearts are, on strings well thats
just the way we like it:
the music that plays had no composer
its tone is, its only meaning
we burn what constricts us.
you should want to keep on being what you
are knowing that it was in selfhood we met &,
constancy will be our mirror & our lives will
ebb together & when were apart alone we may
fancy the others eye; on us & it will
make us free of, wind & other eyes.

8

how, it changes is something to track when emotions,
seem perfectly at bay its dark a lights gone,—
out, the space! is, ours to freeze!—
in & what begins casually & arguably in bad faith
through cold & time: & trust brings our,
mouths together, & even, cigarettes are forgotten their,
heat being anyway lies, & sex though not
mine is, under control & were slight!
friends, between the parentheses the left thick & bold,
the right slim pleased & conventional words,
though unpredicted float between us & all
because of sliding doors my unwillingness to!
(be romantic to target, myself to set things,
up &, fail, hopefully until an unexpected afternoon!)

9

if id been more throwaway or considered you,
as such then naturally it wouldve worked out just;
like an epigram as it is you appear,
in the crowded hall every year or so accompanied;
by a twinge more than you feel
its hard to function politely, which is no excuse,
when rudeness is assumed & the carelessness,
learned from a box but were not boxes.
so, a little space has been, cleared & though,
your significance isnt profound it is at least,
acknowledged your body too uninterrupted by memory or,
competition this & it seem, new, a,
calm regard if only youd brought words with you
a second opinion wouldnt go astray if one occurred.

—Michael Farrell

Michael Farrell is the author of ode ode. He lives in Melbourne.

Originally published in the February/March 2005 issue of Boston Review