Kevin Gillam




Chopin saw Bb minor as charcoal


in ICU its your name and the date


number of truths equals number of cuts


ravens prefer to roost on dead branches


ill’s a good word—deals with it succinctly


congregation of tuarts, all standing


it’s a dangerous light near the surface


not recuperating, always the next


cirrus smeared, hinting, smudging the language


venetians slivering the mopoke’s call


the undead aren’t writing books about it


raking the coals, making night in the grate


all purpled, fly-wired, Sunday afternooned


while in my shirt box mind, pinning moth words





hieroglyphics of now?



there’s a wide sky and untrammelled footpath out here

while you’re in there on small stools crocheting stories.



used to

trim the bottoms off flowers, change the water, re-

arrange the stems to conjure randomness/order.

used to.


could you?

pull yourself back, smudge under and shimmy into

the scribbles of cirrus, hieroglyphics of now?

could you


stay close to the thrum of us, bang it on your knee,

bleed true?