We climb it seems,
An incline of sloping dreams,
Boding in time with shimmers echoing,
Dogged spirits fuming up fires,
Eucalypt blue from cooling streams,
Licking dank and enclosing desires.
With the moaning scrape of sandstone – itch,
The coalescing circles of skin – slide
We define the vessel with our mouths,
Relishing its scaly surface, kissing it, sucking it dry,
Until Sisyphus seizes our lips, and possesses their work -
Apparitions, ghost-like and wooden holding us back,
Spilling up from a ferned crevice,
Sexed, taken-in, drenched, wrought and done -
Coming, coming at its peak.
The hole, the dirt, the brain-deadening moment,
Finding nothing in the dark,
But white sensed and once delicious nothing.
