for Kevin Hart

There’s a you I speak to most days
and most hours of most days,

agnostic days. On a morning walk
I pause. A muscled gum

bulges, twisted over the stooped
fence. I skirt corners, look up

through fractal branches posed,
against the kind of blue that overlooks

the bay. Another corner, and for fifty
metres the wind walks with me,

tuning the percussion of the leaves, then
stops. And I find myself saying

you, and asking who or what
I mean—the genii of the place; the day—

dark stars; whatever other planets
circle them; the hour still open;

or perhaps, the habit of something nearly
missed; that excess—at the edge of sense.