Edition2

by KEVIN GILLAM there’s a wide silence here, bar lines through hours unplayed, pines and, of course, that pylon, island smeared, wind shushing at waves. one gull, high up, comma cut loose, cirrus, summer, shimmer heat with eyes running the…

by KEVIN GILLAM it was in April I believe, on a Sunday. Frankie was on the veranda, chewing his ‘bacco, spitting and staring, staring into nothing. “see how spotty that wheat is out there?” my eyes take in swathes of…