Drew Milne & John Kinsella
from Reactor Red Shoes
the carbon tongue, the peat
song of broken promises
and ardent castings into
the call of blunt instruments
in the bay of garden island,
or maybe the Sound,
collation of beachcombers
and geiger counters,
supplies in for the run
silent haul of bladders,
super-
trawler catch-all, clasp
of the Russian egg, grasping
water-tight doors holding
ear-pop back, sounding
deprivation on plimsoll
horizons set low as memorials
and beneath the polar
pack ice scenarios: that blip
again, that echo of our love
to look deep in, the smudges
of reflection, tweaks
of vanity’s health in
synchronous
pools of depth charge, of
species charges, the case
for masques falls in squads
stroked into furry quarries
the flip streams laying
fissile levers, hear a crack
there the crack, scarcely
the ribbon of our losses
doing sienna on ghosts of
industrial revolutions past,
scarcely the paranoid rust
of apocalyptics to blood up
the squandered earth, the
spoliation takes our breath
