It will change and change again

these high buildings, these trees

the smell of coffee and rats in the morning.


Outside my door the osmanthus blossom

undercut by possum rank and moist

the way the house has stood here, lowering


a dozen more years than the

white trunked manifora that towers

altering the shade plan,


like so many flats like so many apartments

so many shadows angled across the roadway

flinging themselves in front on the traffic.


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