For Anthony Lawrence
A large gray jumped, what I can only imagine is a dingo fence last night and made it at least 5 feet off the ground, under a full moon a million miles away, granite rocks and pine trees sealing a Cormac McCarthy evening. Wire song on cold wind musing low, tension wang and resonance, the land and ghosts play along and now and then a sheep bleets, but it hardly makes a bar onto these wire songs ...

Small spinifex spin
down from a spirit circle;
the writers cottage ... 

(A pact made above the cottage by local artisans … winds rest for the time being ... )

No ghosting to report on this tour but aplenty haunting of words, sentences prematurely entertained that have the capacity to poltergeist and a writer's biting off; too much in a spell! To only want that wire song later to floss with, when civilized nights of too much consumer discount become morose, head aching to be left alone and 
everyone thinks you need to be alone when you only want to sing aloud and be heard in the ides of a full moon over pine trees and granite boulders, simple, wire song ...