A man will die in Laos.

Today, and tomorrow.


Today and tomorrow

a man will change a tire.


Behind him a mountain

in its 50th century

of slash and burn.

A waterfall, rapids.


A boy drinks methanol

at a Blue Moon party


on an island

where the souls of the dead

are rarely encountered

but often photographed.


Guns are barely hidden

under the bar stools.


He dies. Behind him

a beach, a bungalow of thatch

a faint scent of patchouli oil

adhering to a glass.


Views: 39

Comment by Adam Aitken on April 3, 2013 at 15:34

Thanks for the feedback Catherine, I appreciate it!

Add a Comment

You need to be a member of Sydney Poetry to add comments!

Join Sydney Poetry

On Facebook



© 2019   Created by Adrian Wiggins.   Powered by

Badges  |  Report an Issue  |  Terms of Service