Against the Hurries, Against the Waits

and I wonder, / is this my first lesson in buoyancy / against the cavalry of weeks?

An illustration of a tram stop framed by telegraph lines and birds. Two people sit on the bench.

Two lovers on the platform across the tracks at Richmond,
frail, feathery as birds, tough, thin as wire.
His silver hair glows above the green of the footy oval,
fingertips touch fleetingly,
the other (dirty blond), pulls him in for a kiss.
A furtive glance over the shoulder
as my train squeals away, cliché
I say,
because the moment bobs preserved on my mind
and I wonder,
is this my first lesson in buoyancy
against the cavalry of weeks?


I seem to live my life in transit,
watching the hard sun or falling rain
beat over steel or gravel
in some impalpable space.
A train may be somewhere, by definition,
but the train and the track,
in practice, don’t belong.

Where do I go in this great block
of hours where I’m out of time,
out of place,
moving faster and feeling slower
than stillness?
I sleep my life away on the V-Line
as if no time has passed at all.


Sometimes the hours roar upon me all at once.
As I flit feverishly among them
I wonder if there is space
for calm.
I dream of still water
where I might float imperceptibly
downriver, intervalled ripples
like sleeping breaths,
No rapid-tailed splash, nor
buzzing wings overhead.

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