Look, there she is: Miss Bliss, dozing
in the shade of a Campari umbrella. Beside her
a book--something brilliant: Callimachus,
let's say, printed in an elegant Venetian type--
half-read, with the most alarming
metaphors to come
and a glass of gin, a cool dew
blooming on the crystal, the air
kissing her skin
and the neighbour's hi-fi playing
'I Can't Get Started' in a distant
corner of the afternoon.
The yachts on the water.
The tinkle of ice.
I'm thinking of you, reinventing Sydney
a thousand years from now, and not
getting it quite right: missing the
delicate hangover, the distant murmur
of the city, the scent of this ink
drying on the page.