It was my grandpa who lured Old Methuselah out from the tannic depths of the lake. We were fishing for marron in the shallow waters of a small bay beside the dam wall, the jarrah forest at our back
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The mayflies kiss the glass
Of restaurant windows
Clinging to it
They mirror the fog
Pressing into the corners of everything
And the space in between
The restaurant is a
puddle of light in the
world
Soaking across the parking lot
Sponging helplessly at the mist
The mayflies just
stare inside greedily
Swallowing the
electric bulbs
whole
Of restaurant windows
Clinging to it
They mirror the fog
Pressing into the corners of everything
And the space in between
The restaurant is a
puddle of light in the
world
Soaking across the parking lot
Sponging helplessly at the mist
The mayflies just
stare inside greedily
Swallowing the
electric bulbs
whole
