flight

I mend a burn hole 1 in my grey army blanket 2 by paraffin lamplight 3 in the hay-shed at Rookwood. 4 When we stop talking, we 5 can hear the rats rustling, 6 tunnels in the hay bales. Dinner 7 was baked beans eaten 8 off enamel plates, followed by 9 chocolate custard. We eat with 10 whittled sticks, with fingers. 11 Elusive spoons, dropped 12 in a paddock somewhere. 13 The magpies will steal 14 them away, first glint. 15 We are cold, but we chose. 16 We chose this. Jolly 17 bleak. A pretty lick. 18 Turn off the lamp. 19 A soft sad sleep. 20 The smell of hay, 21 too sweet. Over-nourished air. 22 Night sky opaque. Clouds 23 clotting out the stars. 24 Sleeping in our clothes in bags 25 made for sleeping. We share whiskey. 26 We wipe our bottoms with pages 27 from a seed catalogue. 28 This is "the life". I chew 29 on rose-hips. I wear four 30 petticoats, over itchy 31 long johns. I wear spats. 32 I am Noho, not Hobo.* 33 I brush my teeth with my finger. 34 I memorise Whitman, Baxter, Hawken. 35 I leave good advice on doorsteps. 36 & When the moon shows full 37 over a cornfield in February, 38 I howl at it. Unafraid to be 39 seen as the feral, feisty 40 figment that I am.