Welcome to this loving snapshot of Melbourne poetry.
There isn’t much room left for us…
Here, in the neighbourhood of the people who stare…
Morning: the bay is a saucepan of milk…
For instance, in Ischia. Those dark corners where the sound does not…
Dear Australia, I love you. But you’ve been a really shit foster parent…
I want to go down, filled with anticipation at seeing you spread before me…
They come out to the community in a big four-wheel drive…
Humour at the helm and pointing to hell…
The house replays Nan…
What is the space between Altona and Eltham
but a handful of miles on a paperscrap map…
there are other women
who want to say
me too…