Joan Fleming

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The people who live in this house are always forgetting to keep things new. Now and then, they wheel their deflated bicycles bumpily onto the veranda and lean them against the weatherboard. But what can be done! they cry. We wield no cheeks of wind, no thunderbolts. Air goes where it wants to. The days spread over the gravel road like a calorie mist that the people condense, step by step, with the length of their bodies. At night, the bicycles crawl back to the shed, the rubber loose around their spokes like the jowls of television men.

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