by George Anderson
winding up the blue metal
road. the chilli bin full as
they dance to techno
pickled feijoas a duet
of whitebait trawler to
the beat of whale island
roast lamb on the spit
his legs like skinned
tamarillos without a skit
a lone star in the sky
dreaming of a poet's
head in his handbag
in the night he wakes
a spasm shakes him
he speaks to herbie
out in the bushes
no longer living the lie.
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