Old mine vs. new mine thing | How the | carved starlight | in your lobes | cracks with sighs | an exquisite | emptiness, the forest | daunting but primeval | gushes with potential | memories | Nights in quiet | gorillas’ eyes | pink, shot-up | vivacities of parrots | tossing into the dawn their “no, me, me!” squawks | while | in milder climes | the moon is late to leave and in | the untended garden | dandelions feast on the remains of lawns… || Pleasure’s | exhaustion | sets in | park the car | feed the heat | spend the day | dozing and shopping | and, when, later | crowds gather round | the accident victim | the angle of the sun | is different but, in the main, all | things are equal | we know | after each disruption or virgin | chance | there is a kind of | settlement | the establishment | of uranium or tin or gold || That’s how it is, they’ll say, just how it is || In the old mine | a hermit silence appertains | to footless tunnels, rusted machines | even the spiders grow shy | it is a question, what may | root itself in the void, if anything? | while in the new | whispers patrol your ears | talk of bars and films and hope | and what we feel | so deeply speaks | of an uncharted beauty | prepares to use us, and the divine | senses we discover | in exploitation | spill out their breaking secrets and sing

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

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