From creek to creek, breakaway
to breakaway, well to well,
ditch to ditch,
I am impelled, driven…
my guide directs with cork and needle,
compass in a bowl of water,
precious drinking water, bag
hanging from the roo bar, bag
of waters, as amniotic as the curl
inside the gut when gum-leaf whistles
are blown through the hand, single
vibrating reed, or towers
built over entries of ant holes,
the storm deluge instant hypnosis,
the risen ground suddenly phallic
against the repressed biology
of the district, wired-in and restrained,
once orange crests of fungi on fallen trunks,
intense labia, dried as if sex
passed and pheromones
became vague, just discernible
enough to compel a breeding,
hanging on to build nest,
breed in small hollows,
among the granite and quartz
chunks, not out in the open,
taking risks, predators ravenous
for sex and flesh and fear,
where the map of ‘in our own
image’ takes us cloning.