G

Curls in a swirl, a gas giant, and leaps.

G goes everywhere, G gets things going:

The ultimate goal, gyrates growing,

Garners golly gosh, gleans glorious greets.

Or else hangs about, hangs loose, hangs out, hangs.

Generally good about its give.

Plays the goose, lends to grace, live and let live,

Gags, gapes, gossips, group-thinks, googles in gangs.

G writes the game rules, signs the guarantee,

Smart move G, long on dreams and memories.

In their minds they’re premiers at the G.

G keeps them guessing, godawful then great

Gutterals, gentles, gagas, gallantries.

G goes without saying now computerate.

G (May)

The green sign G tilts slightly on its pole. A few Ks more. Hamburger bags tumble over dried grass. Crows wark. Galahs, in a pink fit, race across horse fields to fence wire. Roads, reconditioned and near-immaculate, descend ever so gradually towards Corio, traffic flat chat. Slow day, but, for the nurses uptown. Taxis test red lights. The town firebug is hung over. The gallery show’s called ‘Trial and Error’. Mall music jars. Supermarkets beep like bellbirds. The city curves around the bay, an “awesome” G, a long G, an especially sprawly G. It will rain for sure. It’s May.

G (February)

G is for God, as though the unnameable could be named. Whole libraries could be constructed to get a go, a guess, at an answer. Letters stand in for what is really meant. Deep into the night and in the morning reverent Yes and dogmatic No go round and round, hang out their findings on a crossbar. The God seminar, same, never ends – except in God. Whereas H is for Hymn. This singing of somewhere someone something understood has left aside all arduous argument, rises up above stonework particulars February, certain of its chosen voice, amazed at its given lines.

G (September)

G is the thumb and heel of the hand and stitched, arched fingers of the glove on the ground. Its partner is somewhere in the world, a handbag or pocket. The lost glove is common in car parks where, with keys between teeth and bags in both hands, the driver hurried to get in the vehicle, always someone waiting to nose into their space, blinkers blinking. The sound of one glove napping may be heard in September, where the gardener left it after clipping the rose brambles, a G clutching an A of shut secateurs on a potting shed ledge.