the blow of a hairdryer due north
fastens me damp to this seat.
heavy, I swear I smell red dirt.
there’s no end in sight,
only bright suns every day on the news.
my children cranky
my husband and I too tired to touch –
it’s Fringe, Festival, nightly, in Adelaide:
fast paced slow motion.
someone told me in passing it was autumn.
autumn?
true.
yesterday in a souvenir shop
(gifts for my nieces in North America)
I saw the Festival Centre inside a snow globe.
snow?
no,
wouldn’t happen.
but dreams are what children make them
and here I am, imagining a giant hairdryer.
it’s dreams like this that make me an insomniac.
half in and out of sleep
half in and out of covers
nine nights
got to sleep
should buy myself the snow globe.
an American autumn carries coloured leaves
and here I find a twisted comfort
as nine days of this sun
have turned these leaves
to yellow burnt and dead crisp brown.
my hairdryer blew them to the ground.
people talk, background buzz.
I only tunnel-vision this:
close your eyes and dream that smell
(fall’s guidance toward winter snow)
flip this country upside down
watch it fall soft and white
upside down
slow motion.