Corridor into mist and |

Also, the walls like mist | a mental point they | blur and lose | relevance | quite radically, so as to | flirt with cessation | of existence, the new | subject has arisen || All day dismantling | a former owner’s | pattern of the past | it is the | intense, vivid | thorny | detail of one’s own | life absorbs | our attention || Sheared | perception | spinning slowly out of | control | the place she | sips at her drink and | gazes vacantly | around the pub, on the other side | of the fork | entirely other lives are being | pursued, in there it is | Sagittarius and roulette, the | anxiety over diagnosis, the figures refusing | to add up || Back, back, then | to the corridor in a building | the school you attended when you were 5, or | the hospital where she | was rendered | a pharaoh’s | daughter by the thousands | of bandages | Touch the | tiles, hold the | edge of the | yellow plastic tray | notice | the swirl and | root of the | smoke from your cigarette, it is | the detail of the detail of the | detail | of everything belongs to you and | can’t be given | to others, or | taken away by them | and in | precisely this manner | Venus rises and the morning | truly begins

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

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