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.