D-O-M-I-N-I-C

THERE ARE STARS IN MY SKIN There are stars in my skin; a dust of tiny shards embed. Beside me I hear no din. They burst afire, then begin to draw small maps of rivers red. There are stars in my skin. A windscreen frame, us within and I'm afraid to turn my head; beside me I hear no din. In the dashboard is your sewing pin trailing a knot of green thread. There are stars in my skin. A fly drinks from my bloodied chin. I sit here staring straight ahead, beside me I hear no din; no gasp of air, no breathing in. I'm afraid to turn my head. There are stars in my skin, beside me I hear no din.

IN HOBART He rolls, trying to find pockets of sleep in his bed Lying awake, naked, itchy on unwashed sheets Lights from passing trucks wash through stagnant curtains like ocean swell through kelp building as they cross the ceiling in alternating waves of white and red to boil and spill above him This city, once a penal colony He feels like a prisoner to a stale closed life His blanket is a hot skin He throws it off and it sends up dust; a damaged moth wing and he the pale pulpy abdomen Sometime later, he will whisper girls' names and arch into a cup of tissues Later still he will roll onto his side and sleep breathing through an