In these days
after the blaze of Christmas,
when all that joyousness
has left one slightly singed, limp –
wilting in the afterglow –
it is hard to look after children.
Really all one wishes to do
is read books,
wander through poems,
and lay out through
the full stretch of the day –
til drinks,
as the sun goes down.

These are broad days,
days without numbers,
that slip one to the other
without touching the ground.
They are nowhere, a pleasurable
limbo, time without edges,
no jolting stops and starts that
pound the body into
certain shape and bully
one’s sense of direction.
No, let us unravel …

So, pity the people in the wintry North
groping by the fireside
with carpet rash and goose bumps,
or those in America
who peaked too soon
at Thanksgiving.
No,
give me these Australian days,
when my body leaks into the summer heat
when the warmth floods and floats,
and our limbs twist with
yesterday and tomorrow,
and there is nothing but this lazy now
in our big bed –
and somewhere, vaguely, ahead –
a new year.