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The Idea of Perfection

By Stephanie Russell

There’s a place I like to go

when the sun gets low

when the hills burn ochre fire

and the last birds wail their displeasure

when flies fly home to roost

and the world holds its breath

it’s a place beyond Goyder’s Line

beyond the pale

a dry place cracked and ancient

where ghosts humble us with their murmurs

and rains when they come at last

gush in torrents like the beginning of a new world

it’s a crooked place

bent and broken

but it’s my idea of perfection