North of Caufield

I’m at Caulfield

falling further into the rye.

Faster by the second.


Right at the fringes

machines hum

and hazy colonnades bloom through.


The labyrinth outside doesn’t have

nascents or carousels.

Rather hemlocks and phoney pigeons strewn


in shallow, grey waterways.

There’s no middle ground;

just overwhelming quicksand and skyscrapers.


Punch-drunk, with its Greek figure

brimming with cheap spirits,

the labyrinth continues, calculated like always.


The ink of lousy principles

inevitably seeps through the stone walls

and the songs get dumber than last year’s songs.


But all that’s

North of Caulfield—inside, the rye’s feathery touch

kisses me reasonably insane.


I mustn’t leave Caulfield

for people outside always clap for

the wrong things.