March 2017

Back to Issue 1


By Jo Langdon

‘I don’t know many words, only blue,’

you say, and then everything is:


the carpet, and shadows on it; stains

after the glass: concrete &


trails of rubbed-out cigarette

– traces of nocturne –


Even the cat, never turquoise

(but at night – )


And so too the half-lifted mood &

us: what our faces might do,


our voices in this, uncut –