Driving between Pinjarra and Dwellingup, between
wire-fenced paddocks, stubble, wan dead logs,
I thought, what am I doing here? What am
I doing here? Then I thought,
blasting along at twenty-five metres per second,
raising no visible dust where I touch the
tarmac at four spinning steel-belted rubber
tangents, riding on air, I’m not
here. I’m actually not
here. Because I’d
slowed down
to make art,
two Recreational Vehicles loomed in my mirrors,
blurred past my window, zoomed away
and out. At eleven o’clock
there arose a beautiful horse,
brown and white with white-fringed feet,
but it wasn’t possible to speak with her.
From A coat of ashes
Jackson 