I
five December two16—
the PM key stops turning—
resigns.
II
prepArdernin Hindsight.
tv cameras from helicopters,
army supplies. the sluicing rains
have closed
the only functioning road.
III
located where I
work, a landfill
on a plateau, our store
of clothing, blankets,
was busted into
(by my landlord,
in his 4 x 4,
to snap the chain off
padlocks at the entrance)
and through the broken
gates the undressed
evacuated backpackers
came that night
the quake charged
bull-bar like
through midnight
beneath the white bull moon,
screeching bull, roaring Kingswood
12.02 a.m.
the people
fleeing sea-loud shores
you will picture accurately
tiptoeing in cellphone
torch light, over shards
of shattered crockery
in underwear pyjamas,
over glasses, shattered
castle stacks of crystal
from estates, four, five
different languages, kicking
through the Humpty Celestine
of Cookery & Maps,
over books like fish expressed
off the shelves, flying fish
leaping gasping on their back,
packing in together, in jolting
aftershocks in milky darkness,
fashion defaulting travellers
dressed in unmatched combos.
in brassiere and jocks, the whole town
had run out shaking, their genetics
underneath their arms,
on unicorns, in aeroplane
pj’s, moonlit valley dust
obscuring November constellations,
the sea withdrawing indecisive, loud
the Land, gravel in a tin can,
podocarp snapped like toothpicks,
and the pink! pink! sound
underneath the mountains
as the granite pins let go.
IV
and as this section lifted, one man,
at altitude, like a bronco rider, in the hut
saddled the spur, rising, said he took it
on all fours, and waited uncertain of worst
scenario waiting below,
climbed at dawn down to the fairly okay.
great work again, Dean