Burn the bushwalk

On New Year's morning, you tell me, you woke at 5am

And took the train to the eucalpyt mountains

To hike through tree ferns, stone tunnels and waterfalls.

Who woke in your bed with you,

Who sat next to you on the leather seat,

Who, catching their breath, turned their face to you

to share a talkless smile,

pink cheeks, dew on their hair?

Not the one you watched fireworks with at the harbour

Or over the arabian sea.

Stiff hug after the countdown.

That was me.

And I was here, cased by some party, keeping sparks of vodka off my cup.

Your email begins, I think

I spent the last two new year's with you,

right? And later you say, you'd really

like this trail,

I think.

You have a photographic memory.

I think your

I think

is there

because you think

I think

of you all the time

explosively, expensively

and you know

you think of me

lightly.

Straining up the wet stone steps

you found a curled surprise

Serpentes elapidae

the first you've ever seen wild.

The snake slides tamely away from you.

It bites me again and again.