Fitzroy Commission Flats

Poem after Jennifer Rankin

can’t catch how the light hits the flats, at seven PM in early summer,
my iPhone camera never gets it right: 

bedroom wall cracked open 
pulled into grass lit orange 
flat on your back
pressed in and up 
blue, the shape of an eye 
almost, and blowing 
air on the nose tip
ped over
between blinks, swinging 
intertia or vertigo or physics 
or illusion of self motion 
not just flat
on google maps 
a line that keeps moving
                                                                              past the periphery.