Kate Fagan: Hawkesbury Elemental

for the Hillbillies

Swamp hen, I say, before we choke
& throttle over the mercury
to observe sublimation at work:
mangrove eclipsing to argon.
The tinnie curves like an outfield.
Another drag puts Fred on the floor,
phosphor sluicing in our wake.
Alright, be shit without reflectors.
There’s nothing soft about a midnight
tinnie ride. Unless you count
two perfectly executed doughies,
shout-outs to the newly fucked
& the sunken bell of a metal drum
when cables bump off the prop.