The Black Cockatoos

Their cracking, wrench-like beaks
tear away at the green knuckles
of tight cones, wasting as they go
the slow and ancient labour of the pines -

Or perhaps they are putting on cufflinks
with the help of their mouths, or just checking the time
as they dress for the next funeral -
Can you hear the creaking coffin in their cry?

Creep

Air in the pipes,
water on the path,
dogged rugs
that love their dust,
spiders in the bath,
oranges gone yellow
as they hollow under tree,
and if you climb
the rotting ladder
against the shed,
you'll see

the haze of other people
as it sours the linen sky,
and farther still
Philosophy!
where 'how'
is shitty 'why'.

What is Space?

As if a photograph of the night sky
were cut and taped
over the far end
of a lensless telescope.

Or is it nothing more, to be cruel,
than the sleepy view from the train
as we race to a workplace?

Better still,
it could be an ornamental handle,
fixed onto a door-shaped section
of impenetrable wall.

Truth to be told,
it is the garden of our metaphors
flowering on the dark walls,
our godsend in the well.