-- Rurunguruma is a word from the Worora and
		Naringu peoples of the Kimberleys in northern
		Australia.  It refers to the rustling sound that
		grass makes when you move through it.

That fella he's coming
up from the grass, spurting
like oil. He hears rurunguruma,
his old woman, whispering on him,
but he says, a fella has a thirst.
He leaves the spinifex and his old
woman and that word all printed
back into the dirt and the 
last thing he sees are those feet.

They're standing over her, mute as
dogs, with something pointing in
the toes, pointing at the sun.  But
he's in his old Holden with its
cough just like his own.  Three
coughs to start and now it's churning
over the road as it goes.  There's
dreams turning and spitting like
pig and the sky's turning above
him, that's the scratched up
end of a song going around.

That woman she knows words this small
can dream up a man, but he'll come
home snoring.  He'll have his hand dead
from the jackhammer, his hardhat and
sour breath.  Down at the pub they call
her the nameless one, breasts you
can tug for old milk, witchety milk.
Only that old fella the sun remembers
how a woman feels:  grass like fugues
on her skin.  He convulses over her
like a throat over a crust and

then a little gullet of light licks
up a stalk.  And another.  The wind comes.
She's taking seeds out of her hair,
she's fluffing her vowels.  She's up with
the inky red dirt still in her knees and
walking in the crippled grass, walking in
the sun, breasts slung down like old ears.