by KELLY ASMUSSEN
Your place
is here
beside us.
Along the subtle stream,
on salty foam,
shining in fire light
and walking whispering grass;
snoring, under thousand star lights,
in long deck chairs
and on the ‘evil’ couch.
Around the void
we meet and gobble charcuterie,
sipping amnesia, in a dark
not penetrated by Summer’s sigh,
within a cold not warmed by El Nino.
Each day, a memory surfaces
from the personality of the lost —
the next film instalment.
Grainy snaps show you in the past
on sacred monolith in nomadic bliss,
captured, not held.
Come back
to your place in the Valley.
Come back
to where rabbits were pocket money
and love is unbound.
Come back
to your place,
here,
beside us.