Corroboree

of smoking leaves and silent sounds and cracklers and sparklers flinted out by anvil from this sorrow land

as if the initiation of skins collected by curators were valuable in the streets of old London town

no curious exhibit itself

albino ventriloquists their fragile voices fletched out on the dark continent of some outer birth

arrows impregnated in their backs cast them in attitudes of prayer at the moment of death

they are the elders and they weave their way through the stars like minstrels

a jaunty march to the heart of darkness in

that big rock

sitting plumb on the planet