Things trudge onto the beach from an algae-thickened sea,
webbing snapping as fingers flex; they lean back
with fists on hips and regard lush mangrove swamps,
deep fossils pulsing with fuel like a gut heart,
a world of hidden tarmac. They spew macadam.
They pluck Sten guns from the trees,
rub off the grease and plug Jesus
as he runs from the undergrowth, arms open,
clutching blueprints, a flick-comb,
the antidote.
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