For Natalie

There is no poem in me
Crows on the evening, no platypus in the Darebin,
A catalogue of weeds versus herbs,
My right leg tweaks
There is no poem in me.

There is no answer in me
Cry the crows dryly:
Teenagers look down
Might is purple
Quiet hatred of bright things
No answer in me.

There is no power in me
Not just black and blue birds confirm
That one.
Out in any weather I accept it
Righteousness or desire or wise planning
Not enough;
Reach and touch with invisible fingers of
Art all you like
No power no cry.

No Bastion in me
Crows beating gulls again:
A reef too far and in the middle of life
Turn to the abstracted common weal
Of my fracking occupation – am I
Still in that teenage place,
So many poems in me
There are none?