
The edge of the world for us
    seventies kids to fall off
    into bike rides and roaming
    long into the buttercupped 
    valley.  Our legs and lungs bust 
    by the falling down house with 
    yellowed newspapered walls and
  empties growling on its floor.
We have to find out if the
    hill behind this one looks like
    the next one and if the creek
    has more tadpoles at that end
    and we can’t get lost because
    we have pylons like humming
    steel parents to follow back
    to our Beasley house on the
    corner with the police car
    barking in the driveway and
    cactus by the Para Pool.