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poem | Kevin Gillam

VINCENT STREET

you’re just driving home from a gig.
you’ve left blood on the microphone.
having trouble stilling

you trawl the dial of white noise.
your ear seeks history’s velcro,
seventies, Bowie’s ache

your night has no kerb now, fine mist.
you play high class games of sorrow,
wipers intermittent

© Kevin Gillam

Overland 186–autumn 2007, p.57

186

186 Contents

editorial

reportage | KATHERINE WILSON

profile | GREG FEALY

fiction |ALANA KELSALL

poem | GUS GOSWELL

poem | KEVIN GILLAM

review | STEVEN LANG

 

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