o Alice’s rabbit hole      cum little horizon      at too many petit fours marked EAT ME

o mysterious opening          to some Blyton-esque secret passage         I’ve heard

somewhere that you end at the liver     but I don’t know if that’s bullshit

and I don’t want to fall into mulling over        how liver      somehow = cowardice

when wherever you lead to         must be so bold           o lovely grotto

o homely dugout           like the ones in Coober Pedy          I almost see you

as a shelter     from the knifepoint of noon     or as exactly what you are

the funniest-shaped relic of         the stream           my mother set rushing

her gorgeous blood                    pouring         through the sluice gate

bright               and brilliant              into me