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Dreaming's claim



I woke up in my Sydney bed, 
my familiar hands, curled gently 
in front of my eyes and the ordinary birds 
complaining softly at the loud building site over road. 
  
But the air out front, had burnt bright orange, 
the hillside of neat flats, the green golf course 
were wiped away by desert’s hot  sweep, by 
desert dust. It was more than eerie, hair  
on my neck first prickled, then stood up.  
Sudden tears clutched my eyes. 
  
I coughed a warning to myself. 
To dream up a heart of dreaming, 
disturbs all sames, with bigger difference. 
Land covers sky, the simple air thickens into brick,  
nothing works smoothly. Nothing breathes easy.  
  
My brother, I was staying with,   
worried about the airfilter in his car, 
"I'm not driving in this dust", he said. 
Fine particles, sifted in and coated  
the venetians. Over the road a pneumatic drill 
gasped. A scientist on the radio explained 
how ancient fungi had turned the dust,   
oxide red. Traffic moved more slowly.  
Outside the bloody wind etched 
with tiny teeth our shiny edge. 








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