Early
on the way to a meeting at Batemans
I glimpse a lyrebird
on the edge of the Mt Agony road
gone as soon as I notice it

I slow down
and look at the place where it entered
but there is nothing,
the bird
become dry branch, scrub-
shadow.

Later
writing this down
I wonder what part of the self it is
hides amongst language

– looking at
these words, this
page,
trying to find where I entered.