by HEMAT MALAK

autumn leaves hang
beside flying foxes
in the breeze…
I unpeg the line of socks
and carry them inside

twigs with berries
pile up on the footpath
under the galah…
so many wasted words
in our conversations

in the gorge
grey-headed flying foxes
in every tree…
empty washing lines
in every backyard

white butterflies
above blue plumbago…
I can’t remember
where I left my car
when you call me