Per mezz'i boschi inhospiti et selvaggi
onde vanno a gran rischio uomini at arme
Sonnet No. 176, Petrarch

But to learn all there is in a street.
To treat the suburb’s noise as another lesson.
The amazement of traffic. Or celebrate
small terrors that balloon from locks and veins.
O industry, garden, railway, brothel!
grafted on sandstone hill and bushland.
Where, once, a clean slow winding river.
A sacred kingfisher rests in my backyard.

Main street clogs, a continual bloodline.
Shopping hearts work with speed, decay.
Young sultans repair wheels at pools of oil.
Stabs of music hurl across the street
infuse my lines with deep bass notes.
As if heaven lies about us. Or love is brief.