For Richard Tipping

Inhabiting this

we're not seated
     on a carved chair
     through glass

the sharked

We're the flensing edge
     of any of a hundred
     newly risen

We're the cornea
     of a boy bodysurfing
     beside an
     outlet pipe

We're a blackened plank
     floating around soaked
     A message
     without a bottle

First published in Plumwood Mountain

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