Pass through bombed–out
shrubs, extrusions
of feather, greenish metal
cut to square and sky.
Is this the jungle?
A rain–wide paddock
gathers water,
the word Up’s thumbed
onto a pilement 
beside a grove
of eucalyptus graves.
The hand, the arm,
the shoulder–stumps
or system? For talk,
for love,
for love
the blood goes.