The Young Ones

I’d waited for him to come to my side of the room, had been pretending to admire, for too long, something that looked as though it had once been Apollo and Daphne but was now melting like hot wax.

In the Long Grass

Surreal moment, this: a roo lounging on a road in the middle of the day, a horseshoe of people staring down at him like he’s some sort of a prophet—or an omen.

FISH

He hovers over her, like Goldie after Kurt, as she floats and undulates in her half-dreams, me staring out the window, wondering if the fish might be dying rather than giving birth.

Corsage

Sideways glances at others who are doing it better: crisp black ties, polish on their shoes, the right moves.

Sugarloaf

Horses and earth are just different shades of each other, and we start to disappear, all of us, into the thickets of leaf and shadow.