The Best Australian Poems 2011 Read Online Free Page A

agree?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â your number’s in my phone,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I could call to ask.

tick
Joanne Burns
    last drinks at the
    friendship bar evanescence
    is my pashmina no apology
    for the lack of a biography
    anyone could see it
    coming runes in the fettuccini
    is one way of looking at it i
    suppose all the decades of
    romping in the hay production
    figures never disputed now it’s
    time to leave the wagon to
    serenade its own wheels   how
    black the glossy stars this enchanted
    evening mario stranger than anything you
    could call terrestrial bow ties

How the Dusk Portions Time
Michelle Cahill
    Then one evening, after the gallery, hung with invisible
    abstracts, you take me apart to flesh the miniatures:
    a fleck of craquelure, speckles of mascara from my
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â shadow eyes, already panda-streaked.
    Â 
    I fail to notice how you slip the pieces in your coat pocket.
    Distracted as I am by wolf hands, the hairs in your cleft
    neck. You’re not, but you might be, up yourself, I think,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â skating across the vestibule floor.
    Â 
    How the light divides the dream, menacing, promising
    shyness or indifference, I cannot tell, though it amounts
    to the same verdict. Is that what you mean about pleading
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â guilty as the fig trees stir, balmy in winter?
    Â 
    Some evenings are this fragile. Rainbow lorikeets court
    the soft crumbs, a magpie takes off with a crust, clouds
    skim over the Finger Wharf, footsteps trip in the Domain
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â where the pine scent lingers as lips:
    Â 
    ours for a flower moment, the botanist’s pinnate rose
    is a name calling to its mute echo. Bats skip and loop
    the legible sky in their quiet frenzy like involuntary
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â kites between metallic and neon spires.
    Â 
    So dusk emulsifies desire, or maybe it’s the reverse
    â€“ we are tenants of this periphrastic end. Office cubicles
    half-lit, ladder the sky, turning their discretionary gaze
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to what’s sketched by the carbon ink.

the lights are on
Grant Caldwell
    the irony of green rain
    is not lost on you
    Â 
    the rank apocalypse
    stalks the landscape
    Â 
    spreadable butter for your convenience
    where would we be without
    Â 
    your depressive head
    mocks you from its alcove
    Â 
    cars whizz both ways
    the question remains
    Â 
    like a daytime tv show
    where someone you’re sure
    Â 
    is yourself in disguise
    makes predictable jokes
    Â 
    laughed at by machines

on empty
John Carey
    On a hot day the North-West Plain is so flat it isn’t.
    The horizon curves and stirs like a wisp of moustache.
    Animals burrow that aren’t meant to burrow.
    Prey walk past their predators under a white flag.
    The eyes of roadkill are left to boil in their sockets.
    The can of beer is dry when you open it.
    A cigarette is rolling another swagman.
    The motor smokes nervously before you start it.
    The mobile phone sweats, whimpers and croaks.
    The devil is on holiday in Tasmania.
    The paddock on the left is Texas.
    The seat of government is the only tree.
    We’ll take a rest-stop at the next mirage.
    Is it far? It has been. Are we there yet? No.

Magma
Bonny Cassidy
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â At almost noon. 
    He sees only figures              no game.
    Â 
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â They clap.  Céline has the ball.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â He raises his palms, then lowers them.
    Â 
    Just go, just go.   Clap, laugh, go.
    Â 
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Their shadows curl
    under them: falling