the shape her god takes

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Catching the cool
blue spin
of a shop’s aircon in the evening
on the way to work.

The sun burns tufts of bay-grass,
bare bust-up ships in the dock,
dogs hiding in the filtered shade.
-
If I told you this body was an illusion
you would say
‘you’re wrong, it’s not,’ and you would be right
but also not,
right?

When I walk to work in Port Melbourne
in the spacious evening of ships,
the lit port is compiled
of dust ( the coming-up and breaking off
of waves )
the combination of the city and the sky
makes a tough metaphor.
-
If you told me you love Denise Levertov’s poem Merrit
Parkway but disagree with the shape her god takes -
capped G, the significant driver that is separate from his car
the long bar’d freeway -
I would say ‘yes’

and when I’m walking to work in Port Melbourne
I’m aware of the temporariness of the fixed glass
of the business district, the cold metallic gleaming
of it.

from here