I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills...
Well, not really, I just adore
that first line of Isak's book.
I wanted a love like the one she
had. I could taste it. Smell it, like fresh
soap and old leather.
I wanted music in the tall grass, bending
to my wishes.
I wanted to dance with your hands on my
hips, close enough to see stars migrating
from each passing breeze.
I admired the respect of silence
and a smile
that could kill me.
I imagined memories to put into cages while lions
roamed on my lover's grave. But it is kale that
grows wild on a grave in Munich, and time has no heartbeat
though distance does.

And if there was too much usefulness and not
enough imagination on my part, it's because you died
and I lived. Australia is a land too far and
away, but if I had wings, I'd fly there.

Australia is my bore worm, eating my brains for just
deserts, she's my calliope, round and round she
goes, I try to catch the tail of the white unicorn,
but the Northern Lights do me in and shadow
puppets of my purpose break seeds
growing in the flatlands where wheat is golden
and the sun is always rising, red and huge,
a giant dwarf in the galaxy I create, leaf
by leaf.