Footscray manchester, North Fitzroy

Ocean, Buttermilk, Frost.
Sheets of colour stacked up flatly
in the catalogue.
One of many. The bright detritus
spewed along the hall mapping snails-
their threads of need hungry
angelic traceries through the shed
hair and grit the world
can't quite let go of.
How much it would discard sans gravity.
Some hold the floorboards
with old rain, bleed their brightness out.
Others flap to fringes of rooms
where ghost winds read them lightly,
never tiring of all these things to touch:
see the garish salmon-pink chaise-longue
from Franco Cozzo's warehouse
against that wall,
showing-off for nothing, so plump
and ostentatious
no wonder she has slipped from it
to cradle her spare limbs.
Unfold the crisp lines of cotton
to throw a pretty shroud.