Perth

In Western Australia, it’s likely
that we have no prophets,

we have no damned,
there’s probably no heaven to be found –

only this dry and aching span,
roads laid down on burnt red dirt like tar-crossed,

humming brands. Only construction sites
laid open.

You know, this city, it doesn’t grow, it doesn’t burn,
it only stands.

It is all, and endlessly, and only,
the slam of car doors being shut, the tradie’s

first cigarette, the mother’s
harassed reply, the toddler’s sticky

grasping hand, the tight and cerulean sky.
The freeway, the peeling tunnel,

the sloping oases of white sand.