The sky will be here soon.
Parts of it have arrived early, embracing the outer neighbourhoods,
Where the lawns were quilted in cockatoos.
There’s nothing left there anymore.
The clouds got here first, though.
A few months ago.
Stuffy, hot things,
Swimming when I walk.
Mountains have curled up and hidden,
Whimpering beneath the soil.
Insects crawl out of my mouth when I speak to you.
And the rivers, some drained themselves, some float overhead.
So, I’ll reach for your stubby, pillowed fingers through the soiled fog,
And we’ll laugh as the earth greets an old friend.