Scrub
The road glitters
Buckles like a whip
Unfolding through the bush for miles
It’s scrub, arid to the eye
The pupil splits to encompass
This land of wind-picked colours
Burnt out trees are
Grubbed up by a belt of fire
The deep horizon sings
Eyes deceive; pools of oily water
Etherise into hot blocks of air.
A crow with a cry like a bleating sheep
Flies heavily from a dead kangaroo
Its tail stiff on the road.
Unlike the Aborigines
We pass through quickly
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