yard—outskirts of Geelong
on hot days they turn
the woodchips
guard against the blaze
decomposing in your chest
the heave of workmen
and your plaits
falling from the shoulders
in the stir of bark it is hard to smell
your signature scent
surfers paradise
the coral has been sprayed to preserve its lustre
from your balcony
loops of fluorescent tube
the letters form a name
something you didn’t know you needed
the main strip always alluring
in darkness