I like to watch my father chopping vegetables,
maybe for a Sunday stir fry or a hot lamb curry...

This afternoon
I could...

My mind dribbles
like brine strained through a cheesecloth, I know...

If I were to
mint the minutes...

Much can be said
when...

It's late August already, and the magnolias
bloom pink and white against the weatherboard...

Gosh, there actually
are quite a lot of...

This poem isn't mine at all
It starts and stops like someone else's poem...

If winds could know,
they would know it...

It becomes an art
to shout under your breath...

To eat the first mango of Spring,
we walked to the park...

She told him,
I love you...