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