The moon waits at the bus stop,
traffic-
Factories are crying on the shoulders of rivers,
but babies are sleeping,
wildflowers of identity
growing in the forests of their heads.
Old houses wear their bandages of amber lights,
possums scurry across the roof-
Cleaning ladies are emptying ashtrays, thinking
of butterflies.
In the crumpled sleeves of cafés
the coffee-
and the jails and mothers toss in their sleep,
worried about their sons and daughters:
their fervent ownership of thrill and risk.
And the priests are dreaming of sermons like the ocean,
that will fracture us from sin.
Stars fall from the purse of heaven,
the prostitutes pitch in their beds,
enduring another night of shark meat love.
The bloated moon shines down
on cop cars, tulips and fire-
and dogs bark loudly,
caught between
leash and star.
The Gift of Experience
10th Anniversary Anthology
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Great Poetry
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Home Pond
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Night Walk, Richmond to St. Kilda
Peter Bakowski