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Contents
Poetry

Ordinary things

I was out walking yesterday or perhaps it was today

when a man young as a son spoke under his breath: go

back home, he said, you belong. There, not here. Before

not now. This is not the first time, time was confused.

Tomorrow I go for a jog to let my slab of fat dance

and a woman pushing an empty pram stares,

imagining a past and a place of return I cannot.

I leave the suburbs, and the slithering hills

are nice until they realise I am ignorant

of their names; I am walking away

to the place I live in, and the sun is wetting

my hair, wilderbeasting my body, adding weight

to every step. I shop in a convenience store

and the old man there nods to me, eyes filmed

over with where he used to be. His mouth

opens, throat bulging, and he ejects a red brick

small and perfectly formed. He says I will need it

some day. To build a... Read more

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From Griffith Review Edition 56: Millennials Strike Back © Copyright Griffith University & the author.

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