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.