Gavin Yates


I had fiction. I had the violinists of this passion fruit.
I didn’t see them nude or creeping through
to strangle my houseplant. I had fiction.
Drawn out from the flickering light-year where blizzards
rave your periphery: I will simmer when the sunflower
pours me out of its kidney and into your needle.
I know I put my footstool through winter; it’s uncharacteristic,
but if the black rustle of the gardenia can hold your handbrake
in darkness, the mountainous lapels are wandering.
Fulminating from overgrown virtue where windpipes breathe
your holy shampoo. One nimbus in the smiling rainstorm,
in the weapon you call your necklace. It’s a loophole:
a monarch found carving the stone of dripping leaves
inside an accordion. Car accidents are beyond me
and rattle like a pomegranate in a jacket pocket.
The multi-coloured lights are numerous and your fear
may loosen of a promise and its screw. I had fiction.

Gavin Yates is from Melbourne, Australia. His writing has featured in Canada Quarterly, Colloquy: text theory critique, Cordite Poetry Review, foam:e, Tincture Journal, Verge, and Westerly, among others.
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