THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2011

Miles Cain

PHONE

His face makes no calls
as he leaves Visits
with the world stuffed up his arse.

Possibility injures his step.
On the wing fever and music jump
on the landings until an accent yells

for peace and he pulls blood
and stink from inside himself,
feels the buttons, balances risk

against a tattoo, cleans it, nests it
in the stained mattress
with thirty fingered queens.

After bang-up he sends his need
in forty characters.
Sweat cools his palm

as the message clicks,
escaping every wall
and sudden door.

He imagines a pure and delicate bird
landing on a palm inside a car.
The bird is singing, ‘Soon, soon.’



Return to Adjudicators Report