The moon is not full as I look up
at three o’clock in the morning
trying to lead him by the hand
to my front door   He will
not take my hand   He puts
his hand on my butt
instead and we walk
to my front door
in the cloudmoon dark
having kissed and kissed   I pause
and look at the moon thinking
it may be full   But it’s not
There’s a big chunk
out of it and clouds
fuzzing and veiling it —
his halfclosed rolledback eyes
at four o’clock in the morning
as our hungry bodies

I say I’m a poet
I look at the moon
But the moon is not full and he will
not take my hand

(As performed at the Bunbury Shorelines Festival 2010)

13 February 2009, Perth Hills

That morning in the supermarket we queued with full trolleys,
six deep at the thirteen checkouts.
It was busier than Christmas

and transcendently

Not one baby cried
not one child misbehaved
not one parent shouted
no-one sighed or frowned
and no-one flirted.
Outside, our cars and houses waited
among the trees.
Some of us swapped small words,
but mostly
we simply breathed.
The checkout people smiled
and quietly greeted us.

The company donated its profits from that day
to help those hurt by the Victorian bushfires.