By Bridget Gilmartin

28 February, 2020

Bridget Gilmartin is Running Dog’s poet in residence for February and March.

Each month, a poet produces new work, which is distributed via Running Dog’s monthly newsletter—Stray. If you haven’t already, sign up to our newsletter.

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I slide off the edge 
of the rock 
into the river 
my thoughts 
loosen their grip
in the water
the edges 
of my body
like wet 


ro cksk inthi ghha ndflo werpoll enfing erwat
erski nwat ersk inwat erswe atwat ersalt wat
ersun raywat erre edsm udwa terpla sticai rpla
sticai rlau ghterpoll enwat ersk inro ck


my friend said 
that was the period 
when his self 
had merged 
with everything  
surrounding it 
I thought
that doesn’t sound 
too bad 
we were painting 
the sky was orange 
the smell of acrylic 
orange on my hands 
the orange sky 
on my hands 
mostly this is 
how everything
interacts I think
we’ve just been taught 
to individualise 
and draw borders 
this sponge in my hand 
is not really
a sponge
just a soft shape
merging into another
shape merging into


pai ntha ndspo ngepai ntwo odgre enbris 
tlewo odha ndna ilha irha ndgro unddi rtgra 
sswo odgre enwo odgre enbris tlegre enbri 
stlegre enbrist lesk ysu nsk yda rk


wattle bush dripping
yellow we are eating 
and tearing down 
the highway 
a lot 
can be gathered
about the colonial
by considering 
the concept of 
the fence 
I think
I watch the 
wild grass
grow between
the wire
a lot can be 
learnt about
from this