I bruised my knuckles
on Melbourne's dourer sky 

Heavy tread 

we are almost there you said
but the grim pavement 
whispers
still a ways to wander
 little lost souls

still days to plunder
with a dazzling smile
like the rasp of the nail file
across my skin


The tram lines 
carve Collins street in twain
look closely
you can just barely 
see the blood stain
a dull crust
on the polished metal railing 

Someone asks me for money

but politely 
not like France
where they will stab you
 given half a chance

Here they beg
with embarrassed eyes
and the dirty hands 
shake just a little
as if accepting the money
makes them
less than a beggar 

How can one be
less than a beggar?


He spins and curls back into the throng
roaming aimless along Swanston
lost in the myriad

We never arrive 

we never even 
assumed we would


the blood wells
from my hands
and you kiss them
the copper tart
 on your lips