Kevin Gillam

 

darks

 

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?

 

people,

there’s a wide sky and untrammelled footpath out here

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

people

 

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?