This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.

Adamson Adrift

We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,

where the ferries make the Harbour

never still,

and Robert Adamson floated away

with grace on the violent tide,

as we looked on the streams

of the living

(as in air, we were in motion)

and in action, and relative calm

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