Perigee Moon

There’s a perigee  moon tonight

so close, so bright

I should be able to reach, touch its face and kiss it

but it ‘s too to grey to see.

I’m still  kicking through floods.

Guessed hunched shape on George Street:

aborigine man damp, dark and quilted

in a street bag for sleeping.

Brollies break and die at a junction

where a lit  elevator climbs Market City

to karaoke and Thai massage.

Astounding possibility!

Close moon with your impossible magnolia skin

your girl-boy tide psyching

south south south of the equator

fable of moon read about in morning papers

lost to hunched inheritors, to incomers

also and their flaky tiny dead-beat ways.