Personalised shipwreck | Monogramed fever | Did you receive your invitation to the debacle?… | Giving form to the mist | cars moving slowly | carving from the sun | some slanted shine | stroking the cat’s belly | putting off a decision | My diary is full of intimate bric-a-brac | not much to do with hearts and minds, at least | not directly | Trying to link satisfaction with the emptiness | not succeeding | Rents going up in my Ivory Tower | the landlord | never fixes the plumbing | and Jean-Luc says | it’s cold in his diamond garret | Meeting my wife online | shall we join the riots today? | The fire | wasn’t invited | but came anyway | how the ashes left | nobody said

Shaping the mist into pines and horse chestnuts | Packing my case with solitude and bottles, aspirins, books | It was a land of judges and perpetual trial | the only way not to get arrested | was to keep moving | We went through some dangerous country | took passage on unlicensed steamers | sailed at night | slept in airports | bus-stops | under trees | on strangers’ floors | threaded our way through epidemics | saw the sheeted bodies | like ad hoc pharaohs dumped | in rows by pits | marvelled at the innards of pomegranates | drank fine Colombian coffee at boulevard cafés | under pale blue and white striped awnings | discussed praxis and ontology | and we learned something every day and we learned nothing | You carried fire in your bag | we never noticed | To care is a lie | I said | I even half | believed it

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

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