Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle
Content warning: brief mention of death.
Who I thought was lost was found once again
drawn from abstracts. Class circles in red
your diagrammed frame, emerged out of pen.
Hot dirt to asphalt. Watch the ibis culmen
point to Flinders: they had moved, never fled.
Who I thought was lost was found once again.
The scent of moist brick climbs our old motor inns.
Where I revised, recalled and inhaled as they read
your diagrammed frame, emerged out of pen.
Gazing backwards with a critical lens:
rural paradigms, in the postmodern shed.
Who I thought was lost was found once again.
Cultural cites, a breadth for businessmen.
Us scholars debate over theses which said,
“your diagrammed frame emerged out of pen.”
The findings have changed since I first knew you
then. Statistics have shown that you’re most likely
dead. Who I thought was lost was found once
again—a diagrammed frame, emerged out of pen.