Words Become Worlds

Settling into a five-hour seat
To watch the flat rust land go by.
The sun is set as I walk up Deakin
Frozen tips and toes and nose
To burst in, gasping, at the front desk
Handed a key and a carton of milk.

Men and women take turns on a platform
Mics and high chairs
Crossed legs and notes
In an old art gallery, inadequately heated.
My hands are cold
But my imagination runs hot
Fueled by speech.

A trek to a campus clear across town.
Slipping in late, pink-nosed,
My hands are cold
As the poets and novelists read
Excerpts of things told or untold.

I slip into a trance
To Tracy Farr's voice,
Her story of a woman inventor and a swan.
Her face disappears behind starbursts of light
And the images she creates before us all
In words.
Words becoming worlds.