Tanks

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Travelling,
where darkness hauls the world
back underground,
we pass a solid water tank;
squatting on wooden stumps
its corrugations gleam the dull combusting silver
of elephant hide.

Summer nights breed tanks
and a belief that the moon
was made from a tank smashed into sky passage,
empty and dank, corroded by lichens.

In hollows behind outhouses
or back of a wall of pepper trees, tanks
are sleeping, stirring.
They expand, become nervous and rough
and, grinning with iron dimples,
begin to move out to the edge of town
to wait for the lorry to Places Unknown.

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