My Mistrust

I can’t see it
but I know it’s there.

Creeping through the grass
like suspicion in a leverage
of clever camouflage
patiently blended coiled
and sniperish.

It used to be so unashamed
and loose wearing my own
casual naivete morbidly obese
with hope, but slimmed wiser
without rhyme by the sharpening
blades of the compass and clock.

Maybe because Cathy,
maybe because Claire,
maybe because me?
But now I keep my head
way the fuck down with
a mouthful of feathers

beneath ruptured plumage
unable to hold enough sky
any more, for any more, than
a scatter of tea leaves that
gather mute in chipped cups

that leak futures and forevers
from this hole in my bucket,
dear Ally, dear Margaret,
from this hole in my bucket
that . . . ___ I cannot stop.

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives on the coast of the great southern penal colony with his Blue Heeler, Mary. Some of his published work can be found in DRUNK MONKEYS, BURNINGWORD, FINE FLU, FIVE2ONE, A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY and BEATNIK COWBOY.