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Hawkesbury Campground Poem
At the last pristine river in New South Wales
Alicia Keys tells you through a tinny phone you’re in New York
but the cicadas know better, and they lay
their oscillating sheet of tone across the whole affair.
The drive here’s a motherfucker – 60, 80, 100 zones
go-kart tracks, a cabbage farm, something large
with gates that read ‘Somerset’, and a solitary flouro-green
‘No gas’ sign on a power pole that reminds you to ‘keep our rivers clean’.
The undergrowth begins its slow assault
as the roads switch from asphalt to dirt and back again.
You arrive in a clearing with the dusk and put your tent up
next to struggling families and those with simple needs.
Later, you can watch sheet lightning filter through a membrane
of high cloud. But the whole thing – You, your tent, the fire,
the cicadas and Alicia, are being spied on through the bushes
by The Last Pristine River in New South Wales.
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