Gregory O’Brien

The Red Rectangle at the End of the Bay

I have brought my crayon to colour
in the bay and a pencil,
lightly smudged, for the dog

moving at speed. I have thrown
a stick into the blue acrylic
tide-a bay on which to float

a sun, a lighter shade of something
beyond the beach umbrellas
board riders, derelict shopping

trollies and a southerly swell
in the long grasses
only the finest of nibs could accommodate.

At the western end, only wet suits,
waxes and Bruce Brown’s ‘Endless
Summer’–I clamber inside a wave and adjust
the translucent dials, wander
from room to curling room
of a glass house
falling, slowly, sideways.
And so the world at the far end

of the bay is enlarged
while the other is sold
in small amounts. Graffiti on

the long, red wall: if there is a god
he should talk to these people. A
momentary sun over the cold, hard place.


































































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