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Saturday 27 October 2012

Gillian Prew

Crossing Autumn Again
First autumn    piss rain           and the silver bone of the hill.
October’s bite
and the gold wound. A slow odour limbering
and through the trees a split-grave mist
of gifts and rumours               a loose diamond
boxed in a tumbled hour.
            My stone muscles
with their woollen coats          still as beggars
see no audience. They hush
in this cool room of leaves.     They narrow
to a word. Nothing hears
but the birds                who are not judges.
            My loss
my glittering crust from when I was first knock-kneed. I am
crossing autumn again             one arm sleeved in sadness.

The View Repeating
I cut my tongue on something good
and find a fist like a small blush bird
flung into one more dew-molested morning.
My eyes whisper like two blue seashells. They whisper
a quiet wedding tune. They ask what family is. I sigh
through my skin, the way the rain falls.          I am alive, I say. I
drag the sun onto a spoon. The light
could have been blood but I am bold with old sunrises. I
imagine the dress I will wear
with its needles and its silver-sewn medicines. I read
from a book of poems about infidelity, about the art of dying. I am ready
for a fit of vows, but the view is the edge of the sea
full of quiet that repeats like a grief.

A Conversation Condensed and Expanded
 I am more than one melancholy moment;
a drift; a sighting of sea. You washed me
through the night with your tongue
and you caused me a flood. I sleep blue
beside you while my dreams keep company with ghouls
and my dumb eyes open each morning wishing
poems were more than hospitals for my afflictions.

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