At dusk the mountain ridges become mathematical,
charting the day's felonies
a granite graph of surge and drop
their day clothes fading to binary
a reminder of whim
moment data of dents and pretend
all angles on axes
unlearned by sunrise.
In Adelaide, 1987
the city a cocoon
by scarred slopes of wheat and spinifex,
When the horizon burned,
a fire ring of dry gum incendiaries,
you pulled me back
"It'll never get here",
never knowing that's all I wanted.