Gillian Prew

mobile canto

the first colour was meanderings in black & white
liftings from sorry blinks & scratches in the sand
it wore itself close folding the sky earthward
plucking the wind from the centre of rhyme
we were free then the blood unstuck
the air in our lungs just long enough
for a breath


remember red

Walk a deeper drift than confetti (love). Make
a pilgrimage (a path sore
and sailing) scooping
the soft spillage of forgotten blue. (Remember
red?) It was born with us before they wiped our
bodies clean. Learn it
again. Recover
our discovery with tongues (wrapping). Words
and spit (sweet) show
the horizontal hallucination
of the dream, the vertical
illusion of the view (yes? no?). There are answers. Pluck them. See
if they resemble truth. Rock them
into red.



the frozen miscellaneous of January is
building a gun to the moon.
  (meanwhile) in
another part of town (there is warmth on
the edge of a barroom stool). the air is
fresh with forgetting. thoughts
circle careless spillage
for history. the future is an idea
in the corner of a smile.

it might snow once in a while in
a place like this. the streets measure
life in worn tar, pacing it
with traffic lights, but nothing.




Gillian Prew © 2009