Gethsemane at the Bowl

(after the monoprint by Michael Donnelly)

Stars empty themselves –
no show tonight.

The Bowl opens its mouth
and your teeth shudder.

The ground contracts with cold:
you’re trembling.
Your head falls against the steel cables
the lights go off in Government house.

Far above you the Arts Centre spire
extends its white finger into the night:
gulls circle crying
holy holy holy

Down here
a Leunig festival of weeping
alone in the dark
while Government house is sleeping.

Stars get nailed to the night sky.

You take the silence
for an answer.

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