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.
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.