Tim Wright


Late Waking

on a shelf of rock battered with the crimped edging
of shells
shining with just exploded water now clear

we get on hands and knees and let legs
lead us backwards
over the edge into different water

slicing us with its chill     reef white with light
spilling the waste
of its latest drinking     expression wild

gnashed wanting more as the pool fills     empties
rushed out of holes
leaving two bleached bodies on a shelf of rock

waiting to be thrown     waiting for the thump of waking
the fizz of foam
dissipating between each finger


Wisdom Teeth

I didn’t know where to look.
The bright shapes of bone on the x-ray
seemed to float like fingers of ice on a lake.

Though we’d shared dinners,
pouches of tobacco, a paralytic hug
the first week I moved in, it felt

strange to stand beside you that helpless,
a roll of gauze scrolling
from your mouth, your feet in thin socks.

When you woke I helped
with your sneakers, drove us home
through middle of the day streets,

two blood-chipped teeth rolling
on the dash in a phial as you slumped
and woke against the door.

That night you spat strings of blood
and cotton buds into a bowl, groaning
on the couch. The teeth went on the bookcase

to be forgotten among screws, nubs of chalk,
then found again months later
as we were watching TV: they were long

and stained like museum flints under glass.



Tim Wright has lived in Sydney since 1999. By the time you read this he should have almost finished an honours thesis on the intersections of poetry, photography and new media.