How can I call myself Australian

when I live on stolen land?

It was side of stage I stood, counting breaths, readying for the lights to fade and come up again

as surely as the sun would rise and set

You think this poem will preserve the breeze,

preserve the dark and oaky trees

Pollen stuck to his thighs, the man feels 

something unnamable growing in his chest 

You cringe as the door opens with a loud beep, but no one comes running. 

At first they stand, orphaned, like a line of birds, 

first on one foot, then the other, in unison.

As a Haenyeo, a Korean sea-woman, her day was just beginning, even before the sun rose in the bitter oceanic cold to ready herself to dive for her day's catch.

Thirty-two nights without seeing a start

Bright, shining, good luck, good luck for me.

Late afternoon. I never knew a whisper, soft and sweet, could sing

We walked along the small terrace of grass, the blinding heat of the sun forgotten . . .

You're deplorable, horrible, despicable, ignorable. You reiterate, evaluate, desiccate . . .

The silence can be eerie

Dark, damp and cold