One side slides down closer to the earth, the other | side rises towards the sky | Inside breast pocket, scarlet: volcano | Check | Right between the eyes, flecked pink: volcano | Check | Carrying my grave with me into November, sometimes | your grave, too | A handful of soil, too, enough for violets, primroses, sweet peas, is it | enough? | I wanted to ask the German woman to say sehnsucht to me, to | say gemeinschaft | and on such tiny, tender things | I base a heart, call it | my heart, today | The signs they painted on bridges, throwing your years under trains | One of the graves | is heavier | and grows heavier still in spring | None of the volcanoes | are extinct…

Towing a wreck behind me, hawser over my shoulder | Somewhere in the tangle is the ghost of the storm that broke the ship | and in the echoing carcase of the ghost is | the soft tumult of a breeze, air fronts, pressure, just before | the storm began | I comfort myself with names, “Gangster of Tweed”, “King of Bohemia” | but buildings only have exits, now, is it | my age? | Built antlers out of the side of my skull | a cottage where we hired some time and loneliness | all the loneliness in our grasp, near the sea and towards the end | of September | Lost on a dirt road, in a fly-over state | looking for stress factors | a way back to where | we already stand | Enumerating the fingers that are yours | checking and checking | Threads made of eyelids and glances | hold back the darkness but when | I am at my most tender | invite the darkness in and let it stay

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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