The Rose of Kilimanjaro

Sea­sons change;         so nature
sets your nature free. 

You toss your gear in the back of the ute
and head north.

Longed-for water,
west­bound sun, a barge, the ferry; 
lack­less being.

Some day it will be sun spots and crepéy hands,
and you won’t be blamed for request­ing Christ­mas lists, once get­ting around town becomes
a chore.

You might even thank the calendar
for nudg­ing us into new acts, chang­ing stages.

Right now, though, there’s no more clock­ing on,
no more pledges, claims
to clew.

The time has come—you named the right—
for doing things you want to do.

It’s only a week out here in the mountains;
wak­ing up warm in your dewy tent,
pulling on your grey marl  uni­ver­si­ty shirt,
fix­ing cof­fee on the lit­tle gas burner.

And then,
       dri­ving south this time—the hair on your legs as fem­i­nine as any boob job or burqa.  Blank sex of glow­ing peaks, whit­tled rain.

chang­ing a blown-out tyre on the side of the road,
before the high­way packs you in.