I am not the first to sit here,
peeling the thin layers of paperbark
from each other, scratching the soft glue dust
until the fibre dances in the air
and settles pale in my hair.

A far cry from the ankle joints of trees
that cluster in cold circles of chip bark,
the paperbark tree outside my window
bends sun-struck from the ground,
weeds springing cheerfully through the roots.

I unstick the transparent layers
that give the paperbark its name,
and wonder if this is humanity at its core:
A space oddity; a tiny drifting rock
crawling with curious giants.

The world has, in being known, lost its intrigue.
There is no movement to stir. No discoveries
to spear with a flag, no stone unturned. 

But the dust in the paperbark is a land of its own,
And I, dutifully human, must map it how I can.