by Peter Goldsworthy
I sit on a warm stone step in a doorway
to the Blue Room, the Morning Room.
There is much bee-noise and the noise
of birds: the acoustics are fine in the Blue Room.
Usually it may have rained overnight
in the Blue Room: this clear aquarium air.
In the Blue Room there is always one dove
- hidden here, hidden here -
and many honeyeaters,
up for hours, loony as tunes.
Today the Blue Room is available.
I sit among ants, between bees,
amid designer vegetation:
fine-detailed, non-repeating,
in the Blue Room, the Morning Room,
the wide Waiting Room.
From:
New Selected Poems
Copyright ©:
2001, Duffy & Snellgrove
Last updated February 20, 2023