by James Walton
it is the thing about suffering
the excuses of a friend’s gobbling
cheeks full with unknown currency
over the ankles in sand
this slow drag to conscience
weathered, open to sky
every now and then
while dragging knees toward it
a glance of redeemed sunshine
clapping foreign discourse
where every shadow is anonymous
identical to the core
how our heart chambers push
this sticky throbbing mess
tangential of one another
our abandoned other selves
arm out, waiting for the baton
[James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, a cattle breeder, and mostly a public sector union official. He is published in many anthologies, journals, and newspapers. He has been shortlisted for the ACU National Literature Prize, the MPU International Prize, and the James Tate Prize. His poetry collections include The Leviathan’s Apprentice, Walking Through Fences, and Unstill Mosaics (forthcoming). He is now old enough to be almost invisible. He lives in Australia.]
PØST 