(Jordan’s notebook)
The smell of mangoes
River mud
Panel vans
Horses being led around a tiny field
Curated lawns that just get sick and die
Mallee trees, twisted, turning towards reaching
25 and working the checkout and unboxing out the back, and writing lyrics on rejected receipts and his inner wrist as he goes. His body a canvas of dreams in more ways than one.
My blood of an ancient country. Spinning through these words.
Spinning, spinning, spun. Tomorrow always comes. Tomorrow
we were there 