Street into sky, walls into sky, his ribs
taut with oxygen unclotting, uncurdling
like milk taken off the flame,
                the words
are not quite the best yet.
                The question
was asked when the MP was
in Macquarie St, askew with morning,
his imagination unthawed,
                the mike
held too close to his lips, as close
as the visible frost of his breathing
at that time of day when air was metal
and his  breath rose rapid as terror
in the tender pit of his voice.
        This afternoon, he rings
through answers that are ringing
out the aftermath of air-conditioned choice
hard won from meat & wine & fruit & bread
& his inadvertent playing
with some old interrogators in his head.