they camped out:
scrub and stars
and echoes from cattle grids
as roadtrains hunkered over;
nearby, the haematite load of Mount Gibson,
and emus running from the cold weather
fringing there; “To hear a pure thought,
I study my toes, or close my eyes and see red;
mostly it’s like a dozen radio stations
coming through on the same channel—sense
and nonsense at once...”; they laughed
and the fire got the better of them,
they asked as one: “Can you hear each of us
when you close your eyes, or do we cancel
each other out?”; the drumming
of the emus not far off
and roos crashing through scrub
amplified their crimes, and as much as they tried
to think many contradictory thoughts,
each came through loud and clear,
played back on himself.