The wing can hold the curve of the earth
Tucked like a pillow under its hard arm.
Australia is passing me her endless
Biscuit prairie, patch scrub trimming off
To curly beach. Peninsulas are sharp
As holly. And then a rash of salt lakes,
A strange pox, turquoise then urine.
At such altitudes, reassurance arrives
Poetry mystifies me. I know what I like but not really why I like it– engaging a poem analytically has always seemed either too rigid or too vague. I really enjoyed the examination of this poem, though. I just wish that it had come afterward so that the reader could engage the piece without a filter.