274. The New Year

We look ahead to the end of the calendar,
to the page about to turn over into nothing
but a pale yellow wall that didn't fade with the rest.

Do we list goals
and dreams
and every little detail that we plan to achieve?
Or set a theme,
an idea too dangerous to contain?

We watch where our feet take us,
revel in the possibilities
like they're a warm blanket
on a cold, windy night.
We breathe in the trust,
the visions as they lay before us
like a deck of cards
ready to play.

273. Transience

The city seems strange but familiar

after more than a week in its maze,

like someone's moved a piece just enough

that everything feels wrong

and nothing fits together quite right

and nothing is stable or real.

272. The Effect of the Desert

Cold rain falls on us,
splatters our hair, our clothes, our skin;
we still notice it.

271. Delays

The queue to the ticket counter doesn't move,
this steady group of anxious people,
waiting to see if we can move to another flight,
if we'll still reach our destination,
those expecting us,
our connections,
but we all hear bad news of some form,
before we slink off to the small sitting area
to piece together a patchwork plan
from the tattered remains of our vision.

270. Chickadee & Squirrel

The chickadee approaches the downed bird feeder,
slow and cautious on its small legs
as it hops closer to the shiny black seeds
and the large gray squirrel feasting on the other side.
The bird darts in for a seed
before retreating a couple hops.
Unnoticed on the other side of the feeder,
the chickadee braves the feeder for one more seed,
its tiny beak mimicking the squirrels greedy paws
before the chickadee flies off,
leaving the squirrel to eat its fill.

269. Christmas Cookies

We cling to habits,
stamping too many cookies
we don't want to ice.

268. A Lament to the End of the World

Days have passed,
since the world was supposed to end,
one timezone at a time,
everything disappearing,
or dying,
or growing tragic at the top of the hour,
so that neighbors disappear before neighbors.
Everyone would watch and worry
at the inevitable disaster ready to strike
with the bell chimes,
wishing furiously that they'd never known
when the worst would befall them.

267. A Touch of Home

The roads are familiar
as I navigate through ice,
snow,
the intense glare of the arching sun,
and I do not fear much
as long as the lines are painted
and I know I'm on the American side.

Still, something remains just out of sight,
looming and maybe coming closer,
something ready to break this bubble
we're living in for one week,
something that will say
this doesn't make sense.

266. Snow Flurries

The newscaster promises snow,
thick white water clumps
to drift down from the sky
and blanket the grass,
the road,
the railings and decking,
so we can stay inside,
burrow in the blankets
without guilt.

Later, we step out into the world,
freshly-painted with ice and snow
that clings to our eyelashes,
touches our hair so delicately
that we know this cannot last.

265. Outside

I stay silent in the backseat
as we glide down the city road,
my eyes flitting from small businesses
to pedestrians
to rows of stoplights.

This is what it's like in a city.

The car stops and starts,
slips from one lane to another,
turns corners hiding buildings
I've never seen.

I think
I used to live like this.

And,
This is what normal is like.

And,
Living in the outback will never be the same
now that I've remembered what life is like
outside.

264. Piles of Blankets

The cold dances around my nose,
my fingertips,
my stiff and painful toes
as I burrow under the blankets
to escape
and be happy
that there is cold
to escape from.

263. Flying at Night

View from the airplane:
the towns look like galaxies,
small clusters of life

262. The Girl on the Plane

The girl on the plane
knows my name, my face,
and I know her face as well,
but I cannot place it in this context:
her face buried in a vampire novel
without saying a word to me.

I run through the list
of all the places in town
I frequent, but her face
doesn't fit into any of them.

Pride and decorum mean
I dare not ask,
so I spend 27 hours
searching my memory
until I unwittingly
remember the receptionist.

261. The Tourist

He darts out onto the overlook,
as I read the plaque,
compare the diagrams to the view.

He turns his back on the scene,
silent as a picture,
and holds his camera
to point at himself,
to capture his presence
at an overlook he didn't really see.

260. A Story of Spiders

Before,
spiders startled me,
made me feel watched
and unclean
when I found one
roaming around a room.

Later,
the spiders became inevitable,
something to accept
but avoid,
unless they dared tread
on the bed.

Now,
I noticed when they aren't around,
the usual four to six on the walls,
eating the midges and flies,
making me wonder where they are.

259. An Uncomfortable Angle

The butcherbird squats in the grass,
its neck twisted in an uncomfortable angle
and it doesn't move as I approach from behind
and the little miner bird hops closer in front.

I wait, hoping it isn't dead
but almost certain that I'm too late.

Then it twists its beak around,
head tilted back to look at me,
calm,
still not moving anything else.

The little bird flees, startled,
and I wait a moment more
before I too leave.

When I pass again,
moments later,
the butcherbird has left.

258. The Anatomy of Anticipation

The excitement starts as a tingling
in the base of my spine in the morning,
warm and welcome in an otherwise
routine day. It traces the vertebrae,
pausing to dance between my ribs,
over my lungs and heart.
It slides down my arms, up my neck,
to the edges,
the place where I begin and it ends
with a whispered declaration,
almost a battle cry.

Let's do this.

257. More Than Desert

The clouds make a rumbling
hum of thunder
and we rush to the windows
to watch the warm rain splatter
against glass, cars,
and people who cannot stop grinning
at the firm touch of summer rain.

Later, the humidity will stifle our lungs
and the birds will circle, seeming unsure,
but we'll appreciate the too-heavy air
because it reminds us of the too brief storm
that showed us there's more than just desert.

256. In the Grass

I walk along the dirt lawn
toward the path up the hill
when I hear the crunch
of something heavy on dry grass.
I look over at the denser area
but nothing seems amiss,
so I continue on until it happens again.

I stop, waiting to see what
emerges from the foliage
but I'm also ready to run,
on the off-chance I need to.

The tall grass moves again
with what must be a large animal
before the reptilian head emerges.
The goanna stands on its hind legs
surveying the area before disappearing
into the plant life once more.

I wait for another crunch-shuffle
and the head pops up again
like a prairie dog in the dunes.
It stays for a moment,
then disappears another time.

255. Struggling for Clarity

My eyelids droop throughout the training
and I feel ashamed every time I yawn
from my seat across from the instructor,
but it's better than actually falling asleep,
slipping into the silent dreams
of far away places that wrap around me,
hold on tight just for a little while.
I plow on, pressing my nails to skin,
in the hopes on staying focused
just long enough to make it through the test.

Still, I regret nothing from the night
we stayed up until the darkness almost left
as we discussed geopolitics, economics,
and the human condition
with friends.

254. Rain's Touch

When the rainclouds break
and the water hits the metal roof
in a sound so familiar yet so distant,
we clamber to our feet
and rush from under the patio's heat
and into the rain so cool on our faces
we can't help but grin,
helplessly excited to feel
something we'd nearly forgotten.

253. The Promise of Rain

The dark clouds touch the edge of the horizon,
inland, on the other side of the hills,
and we're shocked to see the streaks
of a downpour in the distance.

The weather forecast has been calling for rain,
but we haven't dared believe it

The air fills with moisture,
the smell of damp dirt elsewhere,
the excitement of the first rain
in five months, 29 days.

The sun still burns hot,
turning our skin pink in little time,
but we have hope now
that this place will seem a bit more humane
with a little bit of rain.

252. The Swallows Return

The birds return,

sleek swallows that we haven't seen

in six months

circling the air 

like airplanes on a string

that a child can't hold perfectly.

They dodge, dart

and play in the sky

just at eye level

for hours

before they disappear

once more.

251. Broken

A spot on the road,
where a kangaroo once stood.
Now just empty fur.

250. Lures

She sneaks up on me,
creeping at the edge of my vision,
just out of sight,
taunting me,
whispering promises
of another night of pounding,
tender pain in my head--

third time this week--

and she dances a flamenco
or maybe a samba
or something equally flashy,
undeniable,
unforgettable in a way
that floods my senses,
overwhelms my very being
as I'm drawn in,
spun in crisp circles
and dipped in impossible angles.

It's impossible to resist.

249. See-Through Lizards

The pink lizard,
with its grey lungs
visible through its body,
sits immobile
on the kitchen ceiling,
frozen as if to say
look,
you'll see right through me
if only I don't move too much.

248. A Dusty Semi

The truck kicks up dirt,
dust rising in a panflute.
Our windows fly shut.

247. Christmas in the Desert

We shake our heads
at the Christmas displays
in the grocery store.

Some people mock
those who play carols
in the December summer
in the barren desert.

We struggle to feel festive
when the days grow hotter
and we're all so far
from home.

But we can't help but smile
at the shrub on the side of the highway
that someone covered with tinsel
to reflect the gold of our headlights.

246. At the Harbor

We lie on our backs on the grass,
which is actually just clover
kept short and soft to the touch.
The palm tree arches over us,
protecting us from the sun
that reflects off the harbor
just beyond the sand
we can see through our toes.

Time must still pass here,
but it doesn't have an even flow,
the seconds counting up
with each rattle of the palm fronds.

245. Full Moonlight

Amongst the white stars,
the moon is a single spotlight
pointed at this scene.

244. Slippery Dreams

The flash of the scene tickles
the edge of my consciousness,
hours after I lumbered out of bed.
The replay of a dialogue
I cannot place,
with people I do not know
but seem familiar too.
I reach for the memory,
but my fingers trail through smoke
because the dream's already gone.

243. Happy Sounds

The air rushes out of our lungs,
in short bursts,
low huffs,
or higher tinkling sounds
as we gather on a segmented porch
with too loud music
and too few chairs
to sit back and celebrate
and laugh.

242. Autopilot

Some days are the wind's whisper,
the palm frond's rattle,
the morning humidity smell,
the glancing touch of the sun on my forearm,
the way my mouth feels full of foreign words.

Others are days where I reach
to rotate the pan in the oven,
only remembering that it's hot
when the nerves in my fingers
start to scream,
trying desperately to wake me.

241. A Lament for Air Conditioning

The windows rolled down
as we reach one hundred ten,
air punching my face.

240. Guiding Flares

The sun sets in front of us
as we ride down the two lane highway,
the sky turning dusty pink and purple
with a small strip of yellow in between.

As we round a bend,
in the landscape so similar at each turn,
the twin lights appear on the right side,
still distant but near enough to know
we're more than halfway home.

239. Humidity

The air grows heavy with moisture
once the hot sun drops below the horizon
and the wind stops the constant stream
that denotes daytime in the Pilbara.

Our skin is a damp, almost-sticky
feeling that grows more uncomfortable
as we fill up with heavy foods
and great company,
until the weight of the air
seems to pull on our eyelids as well.

Then we leave.
Happy
and weighted
with good things.

238. Crimes of the Spider

The spider lies mere inches from my keyboard,
flat on its back, its disproportionately long legs
curl up to its body and I know it's dead,
slowly starved while inside
or attacked by a small spider
or slipped from the ceiling
and fell too far
for its large body to handle.

I'm more anxious,
trying to scoop up the body
than I was having it cover the room
over my head for a week,
like a guardian
or an omen
or another wild animal
out of its place.

237. The Huntsman

The spider wander
around the room
and I cannot look away,
partly cautious
of huntsman's bite
and partly captivated
at the crime against physics
of a spider so large
walking on the ceiling,
effortless,
confident
as it passes the small spiders
in search of something
to keeps it interest
as it walks around,
upside-
down.

236. Office Air

The crisp air from the ceiling vents,
the foreign touch of short carpet
under the soles of my shoes,
the young people in business clothes,
the inexplicable smell of an office

immediately take me from this desert
in the Outback
to the small half-office
I shared with a case of mailboxes
and a never-there intern
for one West Virginia summer.

235. Layers of Heat

All day, the heat lies

like a sun-soaked wool blanket 

prickling my skin.

234. A Lament for Stillness

We danced with the wind
on this warm November night;
movement calms our nerves.

233. Just Darkness

The night curves around

the car and the dusty road,

hugging empty space.

232. Under Construction

The new expansion to the highway
makes three lanes of pavement
heading each direction in a straight
strip of gray, connecting two small towns
that don't even bear stop signs.
Here though, the streetlights curve
overhead like a rib cage
and the two new stoplights
illuminate the road,
always saying there's no one else
around during the night.

231. Stalking the Raptor

As I tread down the footpath

against the side of the warehouse,

I notice the raptor has returned

to the perch near the rafters

and the opening the size of a nest.

I slow, then stop completely

to watch the bird take in the area,

its head swiveling back and forth.

I wait for its head to turn right

before I risk one step forward,

then I consider maybe it sees better

from the periphery since its eyes

are settled on the sides of its face.

I wait for it to look toward me

before I take another step,

taking in the color of its feathers,

the way they lay against its neck,

but here still, I feel watched.

I manage six steps, 

each one sharpening the picture

of the raptor against the sky,

its talons wrapped around the post

before it leaps into the air and leaves.

I resume my normal pace

and return to my affairs.

230. The Other Patients

When I sit in the waiting room
of the doctor's office,
my arm still splinted
after two months,
I wonder about the other patients.

What brought them here?
How long have they been waiting?

Where are they supposed to be,
when they aren't in pain,
struggling to concentrate
and make themselves function
wholly
once more?

Do they still have hope
for a cure,
a medicine,
a day when all of this
is just a memory
too far gone to grasp fully
before it slips between their fingers
like grains of sugar
on the kitchen floor?

229. Barely There

The sliver of moon,
just a slip in the sky,
above the town lights.

228. The Decision Collection

I keep a collection of options

in my pockets, like stones

and pebbles and little round rocks

perfect for skipping across the water.

With each decision, I drop one,

forgotten in the dirt or the sea,

but without an answer, 

they stay,

heavy and cumbersome,

weighing me down

and roughing up the lining

until something has to break

or I dump them in a pile

in the dusty corner,

hoping to forget they exist.

Some evenings,

all I can do is mend those pockets

and hope they'll be a little stronger,

strong enough to bear tomorrow's

collection of decisions

I cannot yet throw away.

227. The Kitchen

Some nights, the kitchen breathes
a hot cloud that suffocates us.

Some nights, the room shrinks
around us, holding too tightly.

Some nights, we gather around
with stories, ideas, too much food.

Other nights, the kitchen aches
with the laugh track on the television
as the only company this time.

226. Lost for Words

Sometimes words fail me,
sticking in my throat
like a long drink of water
in the wrong place
until I sputter
and force them out,
rough,
ragged,
buried so far beneath emotions
neither of us can name
that the words themselves
don't seem important anymore.

225. The Birds

As we drive passed the basin,
the ducks and gulls swim along,
diving for food
or swimming,
their bodies dark and light spots
in a crowded pool,
a happy community
of swans and pelicans and pipers
that we can watch from afar
but breaks as soon as we drift
too close.

224. Stress

My nerves feel raw
and I'm too small for my own body,
worn and stretched so slowly
that I didn't notice the change,

but I feel helpless at the heap of dishes,
annoyed at the empty water bottles,
irritated at the sound of the neighbors'
doors slamming shut,
angry at constantly unreliable internet,

and I can't find a way to settle,
let the muscles in my back un-bunch
from the knot under my shoulder blade.
I can't find enough air to think.

223. Lamenting Nature Sounds

I step outside to the constant
droning hum of the new generator,
the one that's supposed to give us
electrical independence,
supposed to better for all the reasons
they listed,

but all I can think,
with the noise rumbling in my head,
is that this is what outside sounds like
now.

I won't see morning kangaroos anymore.

222. Spotting Kangaroos

In the field, the kangaroo stands frozen
under the twisted wood that mimics a tree
and, for a moment, I think this creature
is also part of the landscape, unmoving,
solid.

My mind cannot decide
if it's animal
or plant,
so my feet slow to a stop
as I struggle to pull out the details
and make a choice.

As soon as I stop,
though,
the kangaroo springs into action,
bounding across the field,
further away from me
and my curiosity.

221. Election Day

Anxiety skitters across my nerves,
leaves me restless,
unfocused
all day as I wait to hear the news,
to see how different my home country
will be from the one I left behind
eleven months ago.

I check the screen compulsively
for hours,
watching the ballots rise
and the totals climb
with all of my hopes
and dreams
and our potentials.

Finally, I'm left shaking
but firm
with the resolution,
ready to be rid of these fears.

220. An Ode to Slowing Down

I'm focused on the road,
the large holes worn throughout,
the rocks that crunch under the tires
or slam into the undercarriage,
and I'm singing to myself,
because the radio's broken
and I didn't remember to charge
my player before I left,
so I almost miss it.

The small plane flits through
the side of my vision
and I turn to watch it
lower out of the sky,
just a little behind me.

I round the bend
and it disappears from sight
as I think
If I'd been going a little fast,
I would've missed it.

219. An Ode to Ideas

Ideas whisper
on the breeze, the dirt, the leaves;
sometimes, they're too soft.

218. Blustery

The wind brings a chill air,
a brisk ruffling
that envelopes me,
makes me feel anxious
if I stay in one place
or stay on one thought
for too long.

217. Dinner Company

Lately, the butcherbird
still shows up
after dark
to perch
on the back of the plastic chairs
to wait
and watch
for a benevolent hand to hold
a piece of food
ready to be taken.

216. A Sense of the Seasons

I saw the flash of movement
in the toilet bowl
a few days ago
and my mind shrieked
with excitement,
that we must be back
into frog season,
when the tiny amphibians
stake out spots in the tank
to swim or sleep
between trips around
the bathroom to startle me
in the middle of the night.

215. Another Day

Pain nudges my arm,
making my finger tingle;
I start to worry.

214. A Hint of Rain Clouds

The air grows heavy, an almost damp weight
pulling me down, making me desperate,
homesick,
for a little bit of rain from the thick clouds.
They put a lid on the usually barren skyscape,
adding a measurable distance of air
from me to the gray whisps
that always make me feel grounded,
too small for such a big space.
But I never notice the gap
until the clouds close over my head,
trapping me.

213. The Escape

The goanna freezes with one leg
up on the short wall's stonework,
its front claws clutching the top
as we pull into the parking space.

It still does not move as we exit
the car and watch it watch us,
a silent fascination
that draws us close
even as we dare not move in.

It does not move, half ascending
as though we stopped its prison escape.
Eventually, we gather the bags
and slam the car doors closed.
As we shuffle away through the dirt,
I glance back to find it still in place,
as though it has a higher opinion
for its camouflaged scales.

I return a moment later,
just wanting to watch,
to take in the shape, the colors,
the angles and lines,
but all I see is the end of the tail
disappearing beneath the building.

212. The Spider's Lament

The spider's egg sack dangles from the broken
side view mirror; it flaps as we drive,
hanging on by the thinnest threads
and I don't know if I want it to fall
or not.

I don't like looking at it, remembering the spiders
that use to roam freely inside the car,
but I imagine it breaking loose,
breaking against the pavement
or remaining intact until it splatters against a tire.

Then I see the spider, clinging to the edge
of the mirror, seeming to watch as its white ball
of fluff and offspring
blows like a streamer in a hurricane.

I don't want it to fall.
I don't think it will fall.

I look away for a moment,
and when I look again, it's gone,
leaving only the spider that just lost everything
in a gust of sir.

211. Spring Fever

The sun beats down on us
for more hours nowadays,
making the air conditioners
churn and hum with energy.
The cold water tap delivers
tepid water in the afternoon,
providing no respite
from the encroaching summer,
creeping ever closer,
silent
but noticeably present.

210. Portuguese Lessons

I struggle to wrangle
my tongue and mouth
into foreign shapes
squeezing out awkward sounds
like I'm forcing broccoli
through a garlic press.

I have to stop sometimes,
when my laughter overwhelms me.
And you laugh along,
never laughing at me.

209. Lost in the Tasks

The words become lost,
somewhere in the back of my mind,
under the solid wood desk
in a cabin in a snow storm
as I fall into spreadsheets,
calculations,
plans and reminders,
appointments
as I lose myself,
my thoughts
until I look up from the jumble
of wires under mounds of papers
and realize how much time has passed,
how I don't need words for that.

208. The Headache

It starts slowly,
the pain at the base of my skull,
cradling it gently,
making it difficult to move,
but it moves,
sliding along my scalp
to curl around my temple,
the edge of my eye socket
and it stays,
throbbing gently
to remind me
to appreciate days
without pain.

207. Smokescreen

The sky's shrouded like someone's pulled gray tulle over it all,
and the edges blur into the horizon, a haze I first think is fog,
but then I realize it can only be smoke from a nearby bush fire
left to burn itself out when the dry land is not enough for it either.

206. Fly Season

The flies have returned,
so desperate for water
the crawl to my eyes.

205. The Art of Tumbling

Through the red dust on the front windshield,
we see the bush-- a dried sphere of branches
as wide as the station wagon-- as it bounds
and rolls across the road in front of us.

We laugh in bewilderment,
pointing,
staring at the small roots
that the wind pull free from the dry land.

The tumbleweed rolls into the mud flats
where the tide rises when its at its highest
for the month and continues onward,
occasionally dipping out of sight
but popping back up seconds later,
still full of momentum
with nothing to stop it
as it plows on toward the ocean
and beyond our sight.

204. The Red Flowers

The flowers fall to the ground
like fat red raindrops on the sidewalk
until our boots grind the soft petals
into smudges the pavement

or the sun dries them into purple husks,
misshapen and wrinkled without the tree
to provide protection
or nutrients
or just a place to stay in the sky
with the leaves and the black birds.

Instead, they return to the dirt,
making friends with the rocks and ants.

203. A Touch of Heat

The sun touches my skin,
tickles on the soft hairs
of my arm, pricking with heat
almost like excitement
but it's too hot to be excited.

202. Barbecue Night

Under the porch lights,
the dialogue grows and aches;
music croons softly.

201. Glimpses and Fragments

Her name is written in the same stark
black letters on white as a newspaper obituary,
my finger following the loops and angles
with a familiarity that doesn't extend to her face.
I search my memory for a glimpse, a fragment
of this woman I should've known,
I must've known,
but the picture's distorted and slipping faster
like sand through my fingers
until the flash of maybe short blond hair
is buried under the barrage of grief
that I already can't remember her face
because I didn't even know her,
and that makes it all the sadder.

200. Nearing Dusk

As the sun turns pink,
lowering toward the hills,
the wind continues to blow
a surprisingly cool breeze,
like the rush of sharp air
leaving the refrigerator,
but the sidewalk still warms
my bare soles with each step
forward.

199. Sun-kissed

The sunshine rouges
both of my cheeks and my nose;
UV makes me glow.

198. White Hot Sand

The hot sand nips at my toes and heels,
burns up through the soles of my feet,
makes me remember the time as a child
the pavement turned my soles to blisters,
large, bulbous, and so overwhelmingly painful
that my body still remembers the unceasing agony
a dozen years later when the sand heats my feet.

197. Unbroken

Among the gravel
lies a whole, empty snail shell:
Fibonacci's swirl.

196. No Goal in Sight

The ants roam my desk,
dozens run for hours, days,
no aim or endpoint.

195. Patriotic Duty

As I sit on the linoleum floor

of my donga in the Outback,

the pen is unsteady in my hand

as I try to outline the faintest hint of an oval

and fill it in, solid and definitive,

to mark my choices for the U.S. election.

194. The Dust Storm

In the morning, the light spreads
diffused behind what seems like fog
but it's actually dust, earth in the air
blurring the outline of the town
and hiding the distant hills.

In the evening, the sun reappears
as a red outline, sharp and oversized
behind the desert sand in the sky.

193. The Cockroach

When I enter the bathroom,
still alert for any snakes hiding
in the area or under the bathroom,
a cockroach startles me.
I use the side of my boot to try
to persuade it to slip out the door,
but instead, it runs to the corner
where my boot cannot fit entirely,
so I leave it be.

Later, when I return once more,
it lies prone in front of the door,
its thin legs turned up to the ceiling
and all I can think is
I hope that wasn't me.

192. Palm Fronds Gossip

The dry leaves drop to the sidewalk
curled at the edges like an old newspaper
and just as frail beneath my boots.
The pond fronds rattle in the mild wind
that does nothing to cool the burn of the sun
as it beats down the barren red earth.
The weeds rub together, sharing hoarse
laments that the days are growing rougher
and hopes that the rains will finally return
in a few months to sustain the next generation
of flowers and leaves, animals and workers.

191. Headaches

The ache settles into the tender spot

just outside of my eye socket,

not overwhelmingly painful

but it's enough to make me unsteady,

unsure if my stomach and brain

are conspiring against me

to cut short my plans for a nice dinner.

You look concerned for something

you cannot fix, like a broken pump

or a faulty string of coding,

but you only ask one time

if there's anything you can do.

I shake my head, mostly silent,

but I'll find the words to explain

as soon as my world stops roiling

in the choppy sea after a storm

190. A Night at the Movies

The sky is still darkening,
the edge of pink fading out of existence,
when the lights at the amphitheater
shut off for the film to start on the screen.
No fireflies roam the skies here
like they do back home,
their lights flickering softly.
Instead, the flying foxes swoop
down in front of the movie
and hundreds of stars still shine,
despite the projector and the projection.

189. The Answers

Sometimes I think
if I stare out at cloudless sky long enough
and let the wind make waves in my hair
the trees will whisper their wisdom:
why the miner bird only has one working leg,
where the goanna goes when he's gone,
and all the little questions I'm overlooking,
because I haven't stopped to look close enough.

188. The Process of Sleep

First the sounds sharpen,
each word taking on the staccato
of a hammer on a nail.

Then I hear my heartbeat
seeming too fast and heavy
as it explores my body.

But it slows, eventually,
tumbling down into an easy rhythm
that drags my eyes closed.

Between one breath and the next,
the words slip away into a nest,
a comfortable cloud in which I sleep.

187. When the Days Grow Hot

The heat sneaks up on me
when I'm not looking at it,
its touch buried beneath the wind
until the moment,
the one where I realize it's too late
to stop the sun from painting
my skin in a block of red dye.

186. Spring Cleaning

The vacuum sparks and roars,
the hose immediately attaching to the mattress.
I jerk it free a manage a cursory sweep of the floor
but it sticks to the chair,
then the floor itself.
I trace the strip of black plastic
pretending to be crown molding,
but the cobwebs dangle off the tube
as if there's not enough suction
for something so thin and delicate.

185. Under the Coral Sun

Six months had passed
since I last tread this path in the daylight,
the time when the shadows stretch long
and everything takes on a coral tone
that makes me hair look auburn, rosy.

The birds gather the same way
they did in the darkness just before dawn,
their small white bodies settled in the dirt
but tense, wary of my presence.

The path is more vibrant,
the water shines brighter
and I can better see the crab
scurrying around the small rocks.

My feet know this path,
but there is enough newness
to carry me forward
until the year cycles around
and I trod in the darkness
once more.

184. On the Doormat

The movement to my right
catches my attention
and I twist around my spine
to look at the butcherbird
standing on the straw doormat
just outside the frame.
It cocks its head to study me
but it doesn't venture closer
while I'm looking at it.
Instead, it waits, watches me
with curiosity but no fear
until I break our moment
and it hops inside the room.

183. Sunday Drive

The air in the car is stale and too warm.
the spiderwebs break and cling to my skin
as I sit in the passenger's seat.

Should we go back? you ask,
pumping your arm to roll down the window.

But I shake my head,
hot,
stiff,
and inspired to spend Sunday afternoon
driving through a neighborhood
with illogical layouts
and no destination in mind.

182. A Happy Moment

After all this time,
seeing the pelicans fly
still makes me happy.

181. Watching the Fields

In the soft glow just after dawn,
I spot a kangaroo, streaking across the field
stopping behind the wiry imitation of a bush.

I pause on the dirt path, waiting, watching
to see if it emerges again,
if I'll catch another glimpse of it,

but after a minute or two without moving,
I realize I never actually saw a kangaroo
but rather a swipe of motion that should be one.

180. Zen and Ants

They aren't leaving the desktop,
I explain after careful scrutiny
of the ants, running a thick swarm
around the bottles, books, and pens.

I turn away, satisfied that they hold no secrets,
no invisible footpath to a forgotten sweet.
Instead, they traverse in the hot day
to the promise of a condensation ring
snug against the metal water bottle.

They don't yet know I swept up the water,
but they'll leave once all of them understand
there's nothing to find on the field of laminate.

Later, the desktop is dry and the ants are gone,
traveled outside through the opening I cannot find.

179. Noise

The wind whips around my ears
offering ceaseless whispers,
but I can still hear the conversation
until someone turns on the music.
The music slowly grows louder
to be heard over the voices
that also battle to be heard
in a never ending race of nothing
but noise.

178. Ringing the Lunch Bell

We gather around the tables,
linger
for the meeting after lunch,
waiting for the others,
chatting idly about holidays
and fishing hauls
and bits of work information
spilling into the brief respite.

We sit in the shade
and cling to our chairs,
so few they are,
and sip from our cans of Coke,
made with sugar.

Overhead, the butcherbird
sits on the corner of the roof
like a plastic owl,
the only sign of life-- his head
swiveling back and forth
as he takes in the scene below.

177. Footsteps

The cadence of rubber boots or flip-flops
echoes off the sidewalk in a rhythm
so precise it seems planned, conducted.
The type of shoes does not matter,
I still know these footsteps without needing
to look.

176. Signs of Spring

The AC's hum again,
a drone for the hot weather:
time to mellow some.

175. A Tactile Postcard

The wind stalls early in the morning,
gentling down to a breeze so soft
nothing ruffles or flutters in the currents.
The sun paints over my skin, my hair
with a careful touch barely noticeable
under the air dancing around my face.
The moment feels idyllic, like a postcard
of a tactile scene rather than the visual,
but I know the sun will continue to heat
the air so this perfect weather cannot last
another hour.

174. Limitations

My wrist lies limited and confined
against my leg
or the desk
or held close to my stomach
within the brace that keeps it immobile
and heavier than it should be.

Every action requires concentration
as the low grade pain
maintains its residence in my system
and I daydream of the time
when I can go back to drawing,
to knitting and typing easily
to my favorite childhood past time
of hand writing my words
on pages and pages of spiral notebooks
without even considering
that it could hurt.

173. The Sand Artist

The woman on the stage makes images
in the sand on the light box; she creates
negative space and adds thick lines.
She pauses for a second, finished with an image
before dusting sand over the white space
and beginning a new creation on top,
so the images begin piling over one another
until we see parts of four drawings at once.
Then she clears the light box completely
the scenes completely erased with a sweep
and she begins anew with a clean board.

172. First Light

I still awaken to a dark room

when the alarm rings again,

and I prepare for the day ahead

just the same as I used to do,

but now when I step outside

the fuchsia sun is already over

the uneven edge of the horizon,

climbing steadily higher in the sky

and casting a soft light on the land

after six months of starting a day

when the air is heavy with darkness,

shrouded in stars,

and almost ready to begin.

171. Waiting Room

I try to stay patient in the hard plastic chair
as the air conditioner blows too strongly
and I finish the articles I brought along.

The people flow into the waiting room
like they only want to watch the cartoon
and read through the piles of magazines
that promote beauty products, home advice,
and the easiest way to fix all life's problems.

Then they leave.

And the grandfather clock in my head
keeps ticking and chiming every 15 minutes
that the doctor doesn't appear like a mirage
full of promises that cannot be real.

I stay in the plastic chair, anxious for my name
and clinging to the thought that maybe,
he's running late because he had to save
someone without any notice or maybe he needed
more time to find the problem and ease their pain.

Maybe he can do that for me too.

170. Half-Baked Poetry

Some days, the little things stand out
in stark relief to the barren landscape,
the goanna in the grass, the new pool
just constructed on the back lawn,
the jazz singer who changes the words
of the song so he's singing just to me.

Some days, my fingers feel like they can't
move fast enough for my thoughts
and the browser won't open quick enough
and the images run over each other into a web
I must untangle and explore before I show it.

Other days, the blinking cursor taunts me
and the bed whispers my name like a promise
and I grow frustrated, because I know
I have ideas and images and beautiful things
swirling in my brain, half-baked, almost ready,
but they need a little more time to solidify
and sweeten before I can offer them up.

169. Intentionally Loud

My booted feet scuff through the dirt intentionally
as I head passed the parked truck and into the shed
where someone saw a venomous snake just two days prior.
My eyes scan back and forth, taking in the details,
the clear path while I make as much noise as I can
and I make sure to keep breathing evenly through my nose,
so I can hear more than the thump of my heartbeat.

I tense in panic and let out an undignified squeak
as the bird outside begins to whistle for the dawn;
then I shake it off like a surprise rain shower
and laugh at myself, with just a hint of hysteria
as I hurry to complete my task and get out of there
while the little bits of adrenaline are still running
the highway around my body, keeping me going

the movements still intentionally loud.

168. The Lure of Fiction

My e-reader sits on the desktop,
unused for the past week
except to read a few news articles.

It's not that I don't like to use it
or that I can't decide which book
should be the next one to absorb
my attention and hold me captive.

I know that I will fall into the story,
enthralled with the trials and woe,
overflowing with empathy and curiosity
as everything else falls away,
including the soft noise of the arrow button.

Instead, I work through a list of other tasks,
and goals, letting the present sweep me up
for a few more days before I willingly
fall into another novel without any guilt.

167. Fading Lights

As the night creeps through the air,
the stars slowly come into focus,
the galaxy stretching across the sky
like the slick slide of bleach
on the black fabric.

The birds fall silent,
the flies disappear like magic;
sometimes the wind stops too.

And the mosquitos appear
under the yellow temple
of the fluorescent lights.

The moon continues its journey,
the slow stretch of a circle,
watching us dance,
laugh,
share stories
and food
long into the night,
when the moon has flipped over
from a curve like a frown
to the crescent of a smile.

166. Lost for Words

For a moment, I think the poem
is locked in my aching fingers,
trapped behind my stiff wrists,
like a butterfly under a glass,
the beauty is there but I can't touch,
can't pull it close and put it into words.

My mind is an eddy of numbers,
equations,
processes,
swirling without an end
or even a beginning,

but I see the way the light plays
on an empty beer bottle,
how the birds in the ponds
look like the ants at my feet,
the way a smile grows slowly
and makes your face softer.

Like I tip the glass so carefully
the butterfly can climb on fingers
and I can touch something beautiful,
even if I can't put the day into words.

165. Collision Course

I remember the day

I first realized

everyone had a consciousness,

their own lives and activities

outside of their time with me.

I sat on the torn, brown seat

of the school bus,

my face pressed to the cool glass

of the window as a friend

rushed away from me,

toward her home,

and I thought she’ll still be doing

things, just like I will be

when I get to my home.

We’ll both eat dinner

and do our homework,

talk with our mothers,

play games in our yards.

The bus pulled away,

the little red stop sign folding

against the yellow metal side

as we moved closer my home.

I remember that day

as I lounge in my donga,

the door flung wide

to the sky turned muddy and dark,

encouraging the neighbors to stop,

say hello,

collide for an extra second.

164. Hellos and Goodbyes

Tuesday night at the tavern,

most glasses full of soda

the video jukebox singing

along as we reminisce

with the man about to leave,

sharing stories of outrage,

excitement, and most of all,

the oddities of the lifestyle

with our newest colleague

in the Australian outback.

Bonus: Photo

I received a few comments from people who liked the last line in poem 150: Capturing the Outback, so I thought I'd share one of my photos of the Outback.

163. One Evening

Everything takes on a yellow tinge
under the fluorescent light on the porch.
Poker chips and glass bottles clink
amongst the laughter and good-natured
ribbing and the strong constant wind
that hopefully keeps the mosquitos
away for just one spring evening.

162. Goanna in the Grass

I hear the commotion swell outside
and creep to the doorway to look on
without intruding or risking a bad
surprise; there's been talk of snakes.

One says, There in the tall grass.
Do you see it?

But I don't see it through the people
gathered with their cameras out,
so I skirt wide around them to see
the goanna frozen in the grass.

It's been a while since we've seen one,
I think, but I only say, It's a small one.

Someone scoffs, probably thinking how could
a lizard with a body at least half a meter long
and as wide as a toilet paper tube be tiny?

But someone else agrees It must be a baby.

That's why we haven't seen them lately, I think,
and then--
When did I become an expert in goannas?

161. In the Air

The tangerine air brushes over
my face with a careful touch,
and I tilt my head to the side.
With my eyes almost shut,
I imagine I can smell the ocean,
taste the salt in the breeze.

160. The Rise of the Spiders

The daytime weather doesn't seem that much warmer
now that we've ventured onto the September grid,
but the nights don't lose as much warmth these days
without the hot barren sun beating down for hours.

The snakes have emerged, frightening, venomous,
spotted on the roads, in the rocks and low-lying bushes.
Paper clip-size spiders roam across the scenery,
my skin, all my things, almost clear webs trace
the paths of their eight delicate, irritating feet.

159. Satisfaction

My cheeks flush with the excess heat from the oven
and my mouth feels too dry after eating the dinner.
My thigh itches uncomfortably from a small patch
of razor burn damp with the humid kitchen air.
My heart seems to beat too fast, too loudly
as my eyes begin to droop shut with exhaustion
and the satisfaction of a stomach full of cheese.
When your fingers curl gently around my wrist,
we find pizza dough, dried in crumbling scales.

158. Taming the Butcherbird

The bird comes for lunch,
hopping close, always watching,
plucks bread from our hands.

157. Reading Poetry

After I blow the fifth take of the recitation and reading
with only three lines to go out of one hundred fifty-four,
I wail out a 'no' and bury my head in my hands, sadly.
I take a deep breathe before I look back into the dot
that conceals the camera, take a moment to lament,
before I stop the recording and start another session,
one filled with dyslexic stumbles and forgotten words,
but I press onward with each press of the 'Capture' button.

156. Why There Are No Pictures

Sometimes, my camera lays heavy in my bag as I watch the scene
begin, watch it unfurl like a flower that will only hold for a moment
before the scene shatters into a cacophony of items and people
that don't know where they're supposed to be at a given time.

Sometimes, I raise the camera and look at the large screen,
watching as the scene slowly focuses before it blurs again
or fades into the wrong aperture or cuts off in the shutter speed.

I try once, maybe twice, to fix the settings before I lose
the moment or I return my camera to my bag and I watch
the scene unfold without the screen relaying the moment.

155. Staircase to the Moon

We wait anxiously, restless among the broken
shells that make up a large swath of the beach,
ready to watch the full moon glow red-orange
and peak over the horizon of the water at low
tide. The light will reflect off the bay, broken
where the mudflats intercept the moonbeam.

To our left, the flare from the natural gas plant
burns brighter in the dark before the moon rises.
To our right lay the bright lights for the choir
and the sound systems that feeds a steady stream
of natural wave sounds as if we'd forget
that the waterline is too far out to hear it.
Behind us, headlights and flashlights streak
across the path, through our vision, and people
chatter restlessly for the natural scene to begin.

Once the moon does rise, a spry red presence
in the Eastern sky, the voices halt for a moment
before the flashes start going, failing to capture
the play of darkness and light across the bay.

154. Lexicon

Some days, in the grocery store, I stare at fruit

I cannot describe and struggle to match my list

of American food terminology to the Aussie reality

on the shelves: how tomato sauce is a ketchup;

use bolognese on pasta. Bicarb for the dough.

Sometimes, in conversations, the words flow out

of my mouth until I'm speaking a hybrid of native

tongue and cultural cues mixed up in a melting pot

until I don't even realize that I'm using words 

I had to relearn and practice until they felt natural.

Sometimes, though, I catch the newest words,

in my vocabulary, not tripping over the diction,

but watching them pass, pausing to admire them

and see if I still remember the American equivalent.

153. Growing Pains

My fingers make the pen dance across the page,
sharp loops of script or the bold lines of my font
as I write a short reminder, a postcard, a to-do list,
my movements precise as each line hits the mark,
strings together the thoughts and sentences.

Too soon, the movements falter, a stumble
in the rhythm as the familiar ache returns
to the inside of my wrist, the tender burning
in the back of hand, the sharp burn in the elbow.
Each movement becomes a labor, a concerted
effort to keep the movement going, to press on
until the whole idea has filled the space,

because what is a writer that cannot use a pen.

152. Petrichor

Some mornings, the thin cotton sheets

are heavy with humidity, the fabric pills

leaving invisible scratches on my thighs

as I struggle to find the elusive comfort

of a few more minutes burrowed in bed.

Instead, I dream of rain on the metal roof,

lightning streaking through the open land,

illuminating the distant hills for just a moment,

the rumbling drawl of thunder overhead,

making us feel alive, connected, and small.

But when I give up, drag myself out of bed,

rubbing my thighs, a half-remembered itch,

the sky is dark with the pre-dawn light

but no clouds break up the flawless sky:

just another humid day in the coastal desert.

151. Not Just Another Rock

Movement in the water makes me stop
on the dirt slope as I discern a shelled
animal moving around the shallows
a short distance from my steel-toed boots.

I think it's a turtle at first, a small snapping
turtle or the eastern box turtles I used to see
at home in the ponds where they swam
but too often couldn't manage to climb out.

But it's a crab scurrying through the water
with no direction or purpose, just ambling
backwards and sideways across the dirt
until it seems to notice me, my shadow,
perhaps, and it rushes off to pretend
it's just another rock in the bottom of a basin
with too few rocks to aid the fearful crab.

150. Capturing the Outback

There were times in those first days, weeks,

when I would sit outside in the wobbly chair

or amongst the dust on the concrete sidewalk

and stare at the horizon, the spacious red dirt

and brush landscape spanning all four directions,

the broad expanse of the sky, ever cloudless

even on the mornings that felt like rain.

The air only held birds I’d never seen before,

zephyrs that felt strange against my skin,

and the sharp captivating reminder

that I’m actually in Australia; it lured me

outside for every moment I could spare.

I used to stare at the sky, tracing constellations

I couldn’t name, searching for shooting stars

or satellites in the edge of the Milky Way,

staring at the way the crescent moon hung

at a different angle from the one at home.

I photographed everything that could fit

into a frame and even more blurred attempts

to capture a feeling, a place that could never

be translated into words or tamed fit in a 3x5

photograph, or whatever that is in centimeters.

And I don’t want to have to say there were times.