It is in wanting to know that you are often deceived,
prophesying to your bones and then seeking to translate
into words what is always being read in fevers,

in heartbeats,
in luminous songs ...
never knowing what it is was.

If only you'd been the aunt,
the long and yellow
legend of Australian

Then you might have written:

When the world has been reduced
to a single dark wood
for our four astonished eyes --
to a beach
for two faithful children --
to a musical house
for our unclouded sympathy --
I shall find you.

about  believing  lies